


careful dawn (crystal grace)

by onceuponamoon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Slow Build, Snapshots, Sunday mornings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-07 14:35:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7718617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamoon/pseuds/onceuponamoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There have only been two exceptions before in his life.</p>
<p>(Or, alternatively: the third time's the charm.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a decent start

**Author's Note:**

> These Sunday morning snaphots are for my dearest Paige :)

Dorian will be the first to admit he has absolutely no scruples involving leaving post-coital happenings to those with more patience, and the inclination, to endure such matters. He’s the type to dress leisurely, making idle charming conversation as a distractor, and _jet_ so as there’s enough time to return to the bar before last call. 

There have only been two exceptions before in his life – the first being completely intentional and later regretted due to being asked politely to leave (much to Dorian’s utter humiliation) and the second being entirely his fault due to bringing his conquest home instead of insisting that roommates would be no problem. Truthfully, Dorian prefers to sleep in the nude between cool silken sheets, nothing and no one disturbing the careful balance he requires to enter his dreams. He’s a creature of habit, if nothing else, and finds it difficult when that balance is upset. It throws him off for _days_.

Which is why he’s immediately surly upon waking in unfamiliar surroundings.

For the life of him, Dorian can’t recall what it is that has woken him, but now that he’s closer to lucidity than he’d ever be at such an hour, he’s forced to sit upright beneath the heavy drape of a thick blue duvet and recall the previous night.

Cullen, the man had said his name was. 

Dorian hadn’t cared, honestly, at least not at the time. He’d gratefully accepted the drink – because it’s easy to take a free drink, make some idle conversation, and then fuck off back to his friends and acquaintances with a shitty excuse – but then, intrigue had hit and Dorian had been interested in hearing about the story behind the scar trailing onto Cullen’s lip. 

The man had accepted Dorian’s curious fingers, tracing softly at the dent of skin with an easy grace, laughing when Dorian quirked a brow. 

( _“Nothing? Really?” Dorian asks, a mixture of awed and horrified. Cullen’s clearly amused by Dorian’s officiousness; he puckers his lips before laughing, this deep hale thing from the middle of his chest and Dorian feels the ghost of a kiss for what it is._ ) 

Dorian had quite liked his laugh.

And from what he can remember, Dorian quite liked Cullen’s cock, too. Enough so that when he’d been trying to gather up the strength to roll off the bed and back into his trousers, Cullen’s suggestion of a shower and then round two was the perfect demon of temptation and desire. Dorian succumbed (again and again) and eventually night melted into dawn and, completely slaked, he dropped off into sleep.

But now. 

Now, Dorian’s wondering why he’d decided coming until he was loose-limbed and empty-minded took precedence over the comfort of his own bed. 

“ _Kaffas,_ ” Dorian curses quietly, muzzily, trying to gather the strength to slip from the warm sheets and into his shoes. “Why do I continue to –”

Unprepared, Dorian catches the scent of pancakes and his mouth waters, pants only halfway up a leg. It gives him pause (because of course the man’s awake; he’s not in the bed beside him – _vishante kaffas_ , but Dorian’s useless in the mornings) for only a moment, but then he’s quickly dressing, wondering if he’ll be able to sneak out of the front door without being noticed.

Except then the bedroom door opens and –

Cullen is…exceedingly handsome. Mussed blonde curls have always been a weakness of Dorian’s, but it’s so much better to hold the knowledge that his fingers were the culprit, that because of him and what they did the preceding night he looks precisely this way. Not just that, but the cut of his chest and abdomen, hardy and thickly muscled with bruises like ink blotted around his hips and the pleased, sleepy half-smile that Cullen offers is enough to have Dorian’s fingers faltering on his trousers’ buttons. A pair of thin sleep pants are slung low on Cullen’s hips. 

Dorian is a weak, _weak_ man.

“I…made breakfast,” Cullen says, voice slightly hoarse, a hand reaching back to rub at his neck. “If you’d like it.”

The man actually has the gall to blush and Dorian – well, he really can’t be held accountable for his loose tongue around attractive men, but especially not when he gets vivid, explicit snatches of memory. “You fucked me six ways from Sunday and you’re honestly blushing right now,” Dorian muses, fingers resuming at a more sedate pace, “I almost can’t believe it.”

Cullen huffs a chuckle, turning momentarily to look presumably towards the kitchen. 

Sufficiently distracted by casting around for his shirt, Dorian’s not expecting it when Cullen’s hands drift to his hips, softly enough to tickle. Dorian starts, breathing a laugh and then breathing through it, his own hand coming down to rest on top of Cullen’s. Cullen’s lips on his neck, however, aren’t quite so surprising and Dorian’s able to make himself relax into the feeling immediately.

“I just,” Cullen starts, nose bumping against Dorian’s skin. It feels incredibly intimate.

It’s slightly unsettling.

As though he senses Dorian’s discomfort, Cullen straightens and releases Dorian’s hips, using instead a grip on his shoulders to turn him around to face him. “It’s Sunday.”

That gives Dorian pause. “Yes,” he agrees, eyeing Cullen, “It is.”

“Sunday is…a day of rest,” Cullen says, eyeing Dorian right back, “It’s a day for pancakes.” There’s a hesitance in the lines of his face, something about the cheeks or the line of his jaw, maybe. He’s hopeful, though, and Dorian can absolutely delight in the power he feels at that.

“I... suppose it could be, yes.” Dorian can’t quite keep the smirk from his face. He probably looks an atrocious mess after last night, but – well, he could still out-handsome most others were they in a similar position.

Cullen’s smile is – beautiful. Dorian could probably conjure up some horrible analogy about the sun beaming through parting clouds, but melodrama like that is better suited solely in only his most saccharine dreams. It’s far, far too romantic a thought for a Sunday morning after too little sleep. 

“Well,” Dorian says, “I’m quite aware it’s easy to be dazzled by my handsomeness, but please, Cullen, lead me to your pancakes.”

“Alright.” Cullen’s voice is soft as he offers a hand. “This way.”

Taking his hand, Dorian follows, idly wondering if he can perhaps broker more sex out of the deal.


	2. progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t usually make a habit of this, you know,” Dorian states, voice gravelly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> snapshot #2 :)

“I don’t usually make a habit of this, you know,” Dorian states, voice gravelly. He’s again awakened in Cullen’s bedroom, this time to the weight of a warm body against his side and fingers stroking through his hair.

It’s a lazy motion, absent more than “loving” and Dorian finds it only mildly annoying, to his own surprise. He’d rather not be touching at all, but there’s something about Cullen’s presence that draws Dorian in. Maybe it’s the breadth of his shoulders offering a bit of shade from the early morning sun.

“That’s okay,” Cullen says.

And well. If that isn’t _cryptic_. “What do you mean ‘okay?’”

Cullen shrugs and the movement jostles Dorian closer when the mattress dips. “If it scares you, I don’t want you to feel obligated to stay.” He brushes Dorian’s messy hair back from his forehead, presses a kiss to the shorn side of his head just above his ear. “But I like it.” Again, Cullen shrugs. His golden, honey-brown eyes are in shadow but still shine with a glint of that curious self-doubt. “If that was a factor in the first place.”

“It wasn’t, but I appreciate your input. Your bed _is_ quite comfortable, after all.” Dorian yawns and stretches, snarling a bit when Cullen laughs and bites the arm that goes errant. “I changed my mind, it’s hard as a rock and I’d rather sleep outside.”

Again, Cullen laughs and – Dorian’s caught, unconsciously smiling even as he cradles and rubs at his bitten arm while trying to glare. He doesn’t even try to move when Cullen leans in and noses at Dorian’s cheek before kissing his way to Dorian’s lips. Everything is all slow and gentle because Cullen’s thorough, if nothing else, and enjoys taking the time to make Dorian melt into a puddle, gasping against Cullen’s mouth for breath. Even when he’s barely able to respond, Cullen contents himself to venture down to Dorian’s neck, the crook of his shoulder. 

“It’s much easier to do this when you stay the night,” Cullen says, voice barely more than a whisper as he cradles Dorian’s cheek and presses another series of kisses to Dorian’s tingling lips, “Don’t you agree?”

Dorian wonders idly if it’d ever be possible to come just from kisses.

His eyes swim as he tries to focus them back on Cullen’s face. “Hmm?”

Laughing, Cullen kisses him one last time before he rolls over and sits up, standing beside the bed to stretch in the sunlight coming in through the window.

“What kind of heathen doesn’t own curtains?”

Stark naked, Cullen ventures into the ensuite bathroom. “One who enjoys the sun’s warmth,” he answers.

Staring up at the ceiling, still reeling a bit from Cullen’s attention, Dorian wonders if this man is from further North like he is. But then he quashes it.

No need to go and catch hold of feelings. 

Cullen reappears in the doorway, toothbrush hanging from his mouth and slightly decorated with the paste’s froth, still naked and unconcerned about it as he leans against the frame. “Pancakes?” he asks, the word only slightly distorted from the impediment.

“Mm,” Dorian hums, “Please.” He stretches again and – smirks when he catches the twitch of Cullen’s cock, still slumped softly against his thighs, thick and long and absolutely _delectable_. If Dorian’s stomach weren’t growling, he’d almost insist on giving Cullen a blowjob.

Disappearing again, Cullen must finish up brushing, because only a few moments later he returns to the bed, climbing up from the foot of it to cover Dorian’s body with his own before bestowing upon him the filthiest kiss Dorian has received. (He’s doled out plenty filthier, but this? This is something new to be given and it feels more than a kiss; it’s a _gift_.) 

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Dorian hisses when Cullen bites at his lip, “Are you trying to kill me?”

Humming, Cullen grins and then rolls off again. “Not just yet,” he answers. He retrieves a pair of boxers this time instead of sleep pants. _Those_ he tosses to Dorian. “If you want to join me, put those on. If not, feel free to sleep a little longer and I’ll come get you when they’re done.”

Dorian snorts and rolls over, clutching a heavy feather-filled pillow between his arms. “Now why on all of Thedas would I pass that up?” He closes his eyes to the reverberation of Cullen’s laugh and drifts off to sleep once more.

 

When he awakens again, it’s to Cullen’s warm palm against his shoulder, tracing the lines of ink that meld into the family symbol up and down his arm, and again down onto his ribs. The snake is in black ink, flecks of green interspersed with purple to give it a deep metallic, jewel-toned flair. 

“I wanted to ask you about this,” Cullen starts softly, “that very first time we woke up together.” His touch is light but not ticklish, just delicate enough to raise Dorian’s skin into gooseflesh. “That curse you say? It’s Tevene, isn’t it?”

_Ah, yes,_ Dorian thinks, _this must be the beginning of the end_. He curses softly to himself, turning his face back into the pillow as he sighs. _Well. At least it was good while it lasted._

Cullen’s fingers slip onto the back of Dorian’s shoulder, up into the hair on his crown. “I have a friend from Tevinter.” 

Dorian’s…surprised, honestly. “I don’t suppose you’re going to ask me if I know them?” he can’t help but quip.

Scoffing, Cullen says, “I don’t expect every Tevinter to know one other, just as I hope you don’t think every Fereldan knows one another.” He shrugs when Dorian finally looks over his shoulder at him. A smirk plays at his lips and then he says, “But if you’re curious, he goes by Krem. Cremisius Aclassi is his name, I believe.”

“Of _course_ you know Krem,” Dorian says, wanting nothing more than to groan, frustrated, into the pillow. Instead, he flips over to sit up and stare at Cullen, brows furrowed. “How do _you_ know Krem?”

“Work together,” Cullen answers, shrugging as if it isn’t a big deal. “On occasion, anyway.”

But it _is_ a big deal. Most people in Ferelden haven’t been shy to show Dorian certain measures of prejudice. Most people in Ferelden balk at the idea of coming from a land that’s still so wrought with classism that it practices _slavery_. But Cullen Rutherford? He’s clearly not most people.

“You – worked together?” Dorian just barely manages to keep from squeaking. “You’re in the Forces, aren’t you?”

“Not the way Krem is,” Cullen says, “But yes. These days, I’m mostly either training recruits or doing paperwork piled high as the Frostbacks.”

“What in Andraste’s name are you doing in bed with a Mage, then, Cullen?” Dorian’s honestly baffled. There’s no way it’s escaped his notice. Especially not if Cullen’s so high-ranking that he’s relegated to primarily paperwork. Folding his arms, Dorian raises his eyebrows and says, “I’ll bet my mustache you were a Templar before the Order fell.”

Cullen sighs, shaking his head a bit as he smiles. “You’re…not wrong.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

It’s none of Dorian’s business, but… “You’re not still taking lyrium, are you? It has a very distinct feel and smell – one that I don’t detect on you at all.”

Shaking his head, Cullen says, “Withdrawal free for six years now.”

“ _Six years?_ ” Dorian can’t help but exclaim, “ _Vishante kaffas_ , Cullen. How did you manage?”

“It wasn’t…easy.” Cullen rubs at his neck.

That show of discomfort is enough to have Dorian back off. His curiosity has always gotten the better of him and this is absolutely not the situation to get drawn into or else, before he knows it, he’ll be researching the chemical composition of lyrium and its studied effects on the human body. Not that it isn’t a subject he hasn’t contemplated before; others simply preceded it in priority.

“Yes,” Dorian eventually answers, delighting in the confusion that decorates Cullen’s expression, “I am from Tevinter. And I do know Krem. Have for quite some time now.”

Cullen visibly relaxes, taking the bait gratefully. “Oh?”

“Yes, we were pledged to be married to one another back in Qarinus.” He pauses, not necessarily for dramatic effect, but because he feels as though he’s bared a bit of his soul to this man he barely knows. “But that’s a story for some other time.”

They both sit in silence for a handful of beats, and then Cullen catches Dorian’s eye, offering a slight smile and then a hand up once he stands. “Pancakes?”

“I bet they’re cold by now,” Dorian complains. “They’re never quite the same microwaved. And unless you want them like charcoal briquettes, don’t even think about suggesting I use my magic.”

Cullen laughs, caught out. “In that case, you’ll have to come back next week if you want them fresh off the griddle.”

And, well. Dorian thinks maybe he’d better chance it. “You have yourself a deal.”


	3. momentum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s sprawled across Cullen’s beautifully comfortable bed, wondering if it’s enchanted to mold precisely to each contour of his body to persuade him to never leave it.

Dorian is frankly exhausted. No number of pancakes or kisses could ever make up for the utter deprivation Dorian is experiencing in regards to sleep and the comforts of his own Sunday morning rituals at home.

Normally, he takes his time about getting out of bed. Stretches a bit, feels out his mana stores and then goes to water the garden. Occasionally, he’ll wake early enough that the crystal grace growing along the eastern wall bloom in the twilight of dawn, but usually he’s content to stroke the white-blue bell-shaped petals and delicately touch the protruding bright pink stamens. Though Dorian has always preferred human anatomy to that of flowers, botany and the medicinal or magical properties of herbs have always piqued his interest. He’s no expert, but with the allergies he has, alternatives to healing potions have always been a struggle, one that he’s found to be scientific if not blatantly fun.

Instead, he’s sprawled across Cullen’s beautifully comfortable bed, wondering if it’s enchanted to mold precisely to each contour of his body to persuade him to never leave it. Not only that, but the sheets always smell a bit like lavender regardless of their vigorous activities the night before.

“Is your bed enchanted?” Dorian mumbles half into the pillow. He’d cast a detection if he had the energy.

“What’s ‘at?”

Dorian turns, rolling into the cradle of Cullen’s warm body. It’s always so blasted cold down South, but Cullen’s bed is the perfect deterrent. Dorian hasn’t woken cold on a Sunday in weeks.

“Is your bed enchanted?” he repeats. Sitting upright, Dorian stretches his arms above his head and – starts a bit when Cullen’s hand comes to rest in the crook of his hip, searching until his fingers hook around Dorian’s opposite hip so he can use it to pull himself closer. Dorian leans back into the mountain of pillows. “I haven’t woken this consistently early in years. What’s your secret? Because, honestly, I’d rather like to go right back to sleep, if you don’t mind.”

Cullen nuzzles into Dorian’s side, his curls scratchy from remnants of gel or pomade or whatever it is he uses to try to keep his hair tamed. “Feel free,” he mumbles.

“No, no,” Dorian says, giving Cullen’s curls a little tug, “Last week you promised me warm pancakes.”

A noise of despair gets buried in Dorian’s hip. 

Sighing, Dorian resigns himself to staying awake. “Would company in the kitchen incentivize you?”

At that, Cullen shifts back to look up at Dorian with one eye squinted open. “You mean it?”

“Sure,” Dorian says with a shrug, “I’m sure you’ll be a dream at the stove, shirtless with an apron on, maybe? Just as long as you don’t mind my blatant ogling because, I can assure you, there will be plenty of it.”

“Ogle as much as you please.”

 

It’s not until they’re clothed and in the kitchen that Dorian realizes that Cullen never answered his question. He’s sitting at the bar, intermittently sipping at some coffee in a purple “#1 Uncle” mug while watching Cullen’s biceps and forearms as he stirs the batter. The air smells of vanilla and butter and Dorian wonders idly if he can convince Cullen to add in some chocolate chunks.

“You never answered, you know,” Dorian points out. Cullen looks confused when he glances up, ceasing stirring only to reach for a measuring cup. “Whether or not your bed is enchanted,” he clarifies.

“Ah,” Cullen says, mouth quirking. “No, it’s – I don’t actually own anything enchanted.” He dips into the pancake mixture and pours it onto the griddle in perfect circles with a steady hand. “I think I’ll always be conditioned to wake early. Suppose I’ll have to work on my stealth skills to keep from waking you up next time.”

_Next time._ It’s said so absently, so confidently that Dorian’s gut warms a bit. There’s a part of him that’s absolutely thrilled at the notion, content with the knowledge that he’s desirable for more than just bedroom activities, and then there’s the part of him that’s defiant in the face of it, wanting nothing more than to flitter away and become something unobtainable. He doesn’t want to… _want_ to play hard to get; it always turns out that he’s too fickle, too particular, too high-maintenance or –

Cullen seems to realize what he says because he pauses so abruptly that it recaptures Dorian’s attention.

“That is…if –” He cuts himself off to sigh, eyeing the pancakes as he rubs at the back of his neck. Eventually, he steels himself, determined as he says, “Dorian, I –”

Dorian waves a hand, swallowing hard. “Whatever it is you want to say,” he begins, marginally desperate, “Can it wait until after pancakes?”

Cullen’s mouth cinches shut and he nods; a heaviness in the air that Dorian hadn’t even noticed dissipates immediately. “Alright.”

It’s interesting to watch his methods.

Dorian’s more of a wait-and-see kind of pancake-flipper, but Cullen only waits long enough for the edges of one side to start to go golden and then he edges them up with the spatula, rotating it until it’s time to flip. Not a single pancake is anything but completely perfect. 

“Seems like you’re the one with magic, Cullen,” Dorian says, leaning forward to snatch a freshly buttered pancake as Cullen pours more batter onto the griddle.

“Hey!” 

Blinking innocently, Dorian chews and tries to keep from moaning. They taste different – _better_ than last weeks’ and Dorian’s pretty sure it has nothing to do with the fact that they’re warm. “ _Maker_ , these are delicious. What did you add to them?”

Cullen’s smirking even as he’s fiddling with the pancakes. “Chocolate chip seems to be your favorite, but those can be eaten hot or cold.” He raises a brow and nods his head toward the remainder of the thieved pancake in Dorian’s hand. “That’ll be better if you wait for the toppings.”

“You’re on a roll with avoiding the answers to my questions today.”

Cullen laughs. “They’ve got a bit of cocoa powder and cinnamon.” 

“What do you have in mind for the toppings?” Dorian can’t help but ask.

Smirking, Cullen holds up a finger before he walks to the refrigerator. From it, he retrieves a covered bowl. With a dorky, “Ta da,” Cullen lifts the lid and brandishes the bowl close to Dorian’s face.

It smells like _heaven_. The Golden City itself. 

Without asking, Dorian dips a finger in and steals away with a taste of the – well he thought it was just whipped cream, but clearly it’s something better. Cullen just laughs and sets the bowl in the center of the kitchen island, not in any way shielded from Dorian’s greedy fingers.

“It’s crème fraiche,” Cullen says, and then the magic word: “Homemade.”

Dorian very nearly blurts a marriage proposal, but catches himself just in time. His eyes are wide and he’s pretty sure he’s looking at Cullen with nothing but pure admiration. Instead of a proposal, Dorian simply states in the lightest tone he can manage, “I’m keeping you,” before he reaches for a plate and a fork, too hungry and impatient to wait for Cullen to finish flipping the last of the pancakes.

Cullen’s blush doesn’t go unnoticed. “Alright,” he says.

They sit in the Sunday morning quiet, illuminated by bright sunlight (because Cullen is as always a curtain-less heathen) as they eat breakfast. Dorian’s actually tempted to just eat the crème fraiche with a spoon once he’s depleted his pancakes, but Cullen stops him when he covers the bowl once more and puts it back in the fridge. 

Usually, Dorian doesn’t stick around much longer, making some excuse here or there about needing to get back home, but with Cullen’s hospitality and his self-consciousness, Dorian for once feels inclined to stay to help clean up. Besides, they still need to clear the air about whatever it was Cullen had wanted to say.

“You should make a blog,” Dorian says breezily, standing to take their dishes to the sink. He rolls up his sweater sleeves and turns on the faucet to fill it, warming the water with a wave of his hand (because the faucet never feels like it gets hot enough to do a thorough job) before rolling up his sleeves to get to work.

Cullen snorts. “A blog? What for?”

“Pancakes. It seems to me like you’re a bit of a mastermind. How many different kinds would you say you know how to make?” Dorian’s scrubbing the dishes, listening to the way Cullen putters around the kitchen, putting away the ingredients and cleaning off the griddle with a washcloth he dips into Dorian’s suds. “Ten? Twenty?”

“Maybe,” Cullen says. “Are we talking toppings as well, or just pancake flavors?”

“Oh, hush,” Dorian chides, smiling down at his hands as he rinses a plate. “Now you’re just showing off.”

Almost abruptly, Cullen says, “Do you think…” His hand drifts to Dorian’s hip as he slides in beside him, reaching for the plate in Dorian’s hand before setting it in the draining-rack. “Would you like to come over again this week? I could make you dinner.”

Dorian raises a brow, glad that he has the dishes in the sink to keep him from looking at what is sure to be an overly earnest expression. “You mean during the week? Not for pancakes,” he clarifies.

“How about Wednesday night? I make a fantastic roast lamb. Or, at least that’s what my sister says.”

Dorian nearly balks. _Lamb_. “You want to date me.” _Sister_. Dorian should’ve known from the coffee mug, but. _Still_.

Cullen blinks when Dorian looks up at him. “Well…yes.”

“Hmm.” Dorian resumes scrubbing the dishes, trying to keep from committing to memory the absolute surety on Cullen’s face. That’s – a lot. “I’ll – I think I want to say yes.”

Huffing a laugh, Cullen gently takes the plate from Dorian’s hand and rinses it, placing it on the rack when it’s free of suds. “Feel free to keep thinking, then. Just let me know by Tuesday so I know if I should go to the butcher’s or not.”

Cullen’s so blasted _blasé_ about it that Dorian wants to scream. He’s mildly certain it’s a front – especially when he looks to see the vibrant pink on Cullen’s cheeks and ears. The man blushes so prettily, and Dorian can see the amount of sac it took for Cullen to ask. It wouldn’t be right to turn him down. Especially not since Dorian actually might _want_ to. 

He blinks.

“Wednesday,” Dorian eventually says, “What time?”

“If you’d like to come here straight after work,” Cullen hedges, eyes scanning Dorian’s face for – something, “You can keep me company while I fix the sides. I’ll be off that day for Annum, so I’ll have already gotten a start on the roast.”

Right. It’ll be Satinalia on Wednesday. Perfect day for roast lamb. 

Draining the water, Dorian asks, “You’re sure you don’t want to spend that day with your…family?” He casts about for a dish towel to dry his hands and smiles slightly in thanks when Cullen hands one to him.

Cullen shakes his head. “They’re out in South Reach. Since I’ve only got the day off, I figured I might as well use it for myself. Otherwise, I’d try to take a few vacation days. Might do that for First Day instead.”

“Ah,” Dorian says. He swallows and tries to quell the excitement that rises in his belly. “Alright. Satinalia it is, then.”

“Great,” Cullen exclaims, a huge, beaming smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

Dorian nearly swoons. In lieu of returning the smile, Dorian leans in and kisses Cullen, nothing but their lips touching. It’s chaste and quick, but somehow feels like a bit more. Like it’s important. The start of some beginning, if Dorian were to be so optimistic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've gotten some really lovely, kind comments and i just want y'all to know that they're always welcome and cherished! especially since this is my first foray into DAI :)


	4. a brief pause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll have you know,” Dorian says, pausing to sniffle away from the phone, “You got me sick.”

“I’ll have you know,” Dorian says, pausing to sniffle away from the phone, “You got me sick.” Every word sounds nasally, stopped up with congestion and fatigue in equal parts. “Shall I address my doctor’s bill to you?”

Cullen’s laugh is hoarse, still just barely there after four days of little more than squeaking. “I’m sorry, Dorian.” He coughs, but it’s not as wretched as it had sounded a couple of days ago, thankfully. “You sound awful.”

“Not as bad as you.” Dorian sniffs again and wishes for a swift death. Anything to stave off the coughing fits and chills. “Yet.”

“Now, now,” Cullen says, voice lower, “Maker willing, you won’t get this as bad as me.”

Dorian grumbles, feeling quite miserable for himself even in the face of Cullen’s optimism. He sighs. 

“Loathe as I am to admit it, I believe I’ve gotten quite used to waking in your arms on Sunday mornings. They’re not quite the same without pancakes, either. I choked down a frozen waffle with peanut butter earlier and realized just how spoiled I’ve gotten.” He burrows down deeper into his blankets, cradling the phone against the pillow so he doesn’t have to waste energy holding it. “What kind were you going to make for me today?”

Cullen hums, a crackling noise that ends in a slight cough. “I had something in mind, but now I can’t remember.”

“I’m sure it was something to indulge my sweet tooth,” Dorian muses. “Mixed berries with some wonderful kind of cream cheese mixture perhaps?”

“I can make those next time, if you’d like,” Cullen offers, equal parts earnest and hesitant.

“Now, _that_ would be marvelous.” Dorian shrugs off the blanket, now overly warm. “Although, I’m not honestly opposed to savory toppings either. When I was a child, my mother would be appalled when I’d dip sausages in the remainder of my syrup. At first it was out of pure curiosity, but then later sheer spite; now, I suppose it’s just habit.” 

Cullen laughs. “Well, that doesn’t sound like you at all.”

“Is that _sarcasm_ , my dear Commander?” Dorian tuts and smiles, extraordinarily amused. “My, my. If I didn’t know any better I’d say I’m rubbing off on you.” He sits upright, sweating in the concentrated heat of his blankets. He’d turned off the fans on his way back in from the bathroom, but now it’s sweltering. Once this fever breaks, he is never complaining about the South being cold ever again.

“If anyone’s done any rubbing, it’s definitely you,” Cullen haughtily agrees.

Dorian barks a laugh that trails off into a high, delirious-sounding giggle. “ _Kaffas_ , but you’re awful.” He groans as he sits upright, knowing he’ll only feel worse later if he doesn’t take a potion now. He’d go visit a doctor or a healer if he had the strength, but for now, one of his own potions should tide him over.

The kitchen of his home is modest in comparison to Cullen’s, but Dorian also spends a significant less amount of time in his than Cullen. It’s partially why Dorian’s home office is essentially a library while Cullen’s houses only a laptop and a handful of locked filing cabinets. Their contrasts in character and likes and hobbies have only really recently come to light and it’s primarily due to Cullen’s frantic call on Tuesday about how he was feeling under the weather but would still prepare their Satinalia feast. 

That had ended in Dorian brewing a healing potion for Cullen, putting the leftovers in the refrigerator, and putting him to sleep before nine o’clock. It hadn’t been all that eventful, but it was nice to feel wanted, to take care of Cullen and keep him company for a handful of hours.

Dorian hadn’t meant to snoop, but Cullen had asked Dorian to find his phone so that he could call in for work the next morning. It had been in his poor excuse for an office next to a chessboard.

He hadn’t gotten to tease Cullen about it for a couple of days, though, as Cullen had been too miserable to respond when Dorian mentioned it upon his return to Cullen’s bedroom. After that, though…Cullen had looked up with glassy eyes, cheeks flushed, and gave Dorian the sincerest thank you he’d ever heard in his entire life.

At his stove, Dorian realizes that having his phone on speaker would probably be a good idea. Definitely better than just holding it uselessly at his side, lacking the energy to hold it up to his ear. Clearly, this fever is a little worse than he’d thought.

Through the phone, Dorian hears a tinny call of his name and then he’s able to finagle it onto its speaker setting and he says, “Sorry, sorry,” and then, “I was walking to the kitchen.”

“If it were anyone else, I’d think they might’ve fallen asleep on me,” Cullen teases.

“As much as I’d love to, I doubt you’d want me sweating all over you right now.”

Cullen hums. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Strangely, this warms Dorian’s heart in that disgustingly sticky-sweet place it resides. It makes him want to vomit. “You’re positively disgusting, I’ll have you know. What sane person wants a sick one hanging all over them?” He places the full kettle on the stove, heating it with a palm instead of waiting for a second flame to ignite, and then starts his tea concoction. Instead of stripweed, which he’s severely allergic to, Dorian has to use elfroot extract (in addition to the dried elfroot inside the tea bag) and a pinch of crystal grace along with lemon, honey, and a dash of peppermint extract.

Shrug practically audible, Cullen simply says, “I guess I must like you, huh?”

Dorian keeps stirring the mixture, adding a little bit baking soda to thicken it. “Guess so.”

“You must like me too,” Cullen says, “because if I remember correctly, you laid with me for an hour while I was shivering and sweating back on Wednesday.”

“Ah,” Dorian says, “Caught like a nug in a trap.”

“You’re no nug.” Cullen laughs. “Something fluffy, maybe. Like those fennecs out in Orlais’s deserts.”

Dorian snorts, bracing his hands against the stove to roll his neck on his shoulders. It cracks, releasing pent tension. “Are you trying to call me soft?”

Cullen laughs again. It sounds stronger, less like a crackly wheeze and more like the way it should. “You? Never.”

“If I had the energy I’d make a sexual innuendo about being hard, but I honestly don’t think I’d be able to get it up. And that’s just a shame, if you ask me.” Dorian watches the level lessen inside the mini-cauldron and then finally pours the water on top of it from the steaming kettle, stirring intently and then downing it after a jaunty, “ _Benefaris._ ”

Still chuckling a bit, Cullen sounds sleepy and warm, making Dorian yearn for his bed. (He swears it’s enchanted. No matter what Cullen says.)

“You should come over,” Dorian blurts, already feeling a little loopy and tired from the potion’s effects. He turns off the stove, pours the rest of the water from the kettle into the mug with the bag of elfroot tea, grabbing it and his phone from the counter before he heads back to his room. “I have curtains, unlike someone I know, so we could potentially nap all day.”

Silence greets him and Dorian checks his phone to see if their call is still connected (and it is) but then Cullen’s saying quietly, “I’ve never been to your house before,” like he’s realizing it for the first time.

“Yes, well. As you may recall, I must like you, so. Come over. I’ll drop you a pin and you can let yourself in.” Dorian carefully gets back into bed, cradling his mug and his phone until he can wrap himself back in blankets now that his temperature is well on its way in returning to normal. “There’s a key under the cornerstone.” Setting his mug on the bedside table, Dorian takes his phone off of speaker to send Cullen the message and then snuggles back into his sheets.

“Alright.” Cullen’s voice is oddly sweet when he says, “See you soon.”


	5. snag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As of late, Sundays have typically started off slow and sweet for Dorian.
> 
> That’s not the case today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this wasn't supposed to be angsty...oops.
> 
> here, have a little emotional h/c.

As of late, Sundays have typically started off slow and sweet for Dorian.

That’s not the case today.

He’s startled during a leisurely walk in the Fade when hands come to rest on his hips, the familiar nuzzle just behind his right ear before a forehead drops into the crook of his neck and shoulder. Were he in reality, and not the Fade, Dorian would easily melt back into the embrace and find something benign to tease Cullen about. But this? This isn’t Cullen.

Though he knows it’s probably noticeable, Dorian tries not to let too much time pass between his realization and his forced relaxation, hoping that this demon is preoccupied with playing its role. 

Disturbing though it is, Dorian reaches back to palm the demon’s cheek. “ _Avanna, Amatus,_ ” he says sweetly. Turning in the demon’s arms, Dorian searches its face for flaws and – the scar is missing. Something so intrinsic made _wrong_. Dorian has never known Cullen without it, hasn’t even seen him smooth and unmarred in pictures. 

“Hello, love,” the thing coos in return. Its smile is sharper than Cullen ever allows his to be, its voice just a smidgen too low. “You’ve kept me waiting.”

“Never intentionally,” Dorian says. 

The Fade functions so strangely. He’d been walking along the old courtyard grounds at the Minrathous estate, plucking fruits from heavily hanging branches, and watching the false sky turn into a burning promenade as the sun set. But now he’s just inside his neighborhood, his house – his _own_ house – just a stone’s throw away, crystal grace blooming along the gray stones and waxed wood exterior. Everything is just a few shades off, hastily composed. 

The desire demon laughs a dark chuckle. “I don’t just mean right now,” it says, distorting Cullen’s face into a disturbing mask, the smugness a touch too sharp for Dorian to stomach. “I’ve felt my soul yearning for yours, Dorian. All the people I’ve met, but you’re the first one to have ever felt right.”

Even if Cullen had been the one to truly have spoken the words, Dorian can’t help but scoff. “Right.”

Cullen – no, _not_ Cullen – the demon cradles Dorian’s cheek, making him meet its gaze. “I mean it,” it says softly. “If it weren’t so soon, I’d ask you to marry me.”

The eyes. The eyes are disturbingly correct, that entrancing golden honey-brown. It’s enough to make Dorian doubt himself for a split second –

And that split second is just enough for the desire demon’s true face to flicker through its mask of Cullen’s face, and Dorian, he’s –

“I’d give you anything you wanted, Dorian, just for the chance to be yours forever.”

The phrase rings around in Dorian’s skull, an echo of an echo of an echo, and suddenly he feels ill, too close to this farce, too far from reality. Why – _why_ is that what Dorian wants to hear most? If he were clever, Dorian might use that moment as an opportunity to slip closer in hopes of finding a crack in this awful armor. He wants to be quick, wants to be smart, but he’s –

He’s _weak_.

Those words, though? They’d been Rillenius’s. They give him pause.

Face flickering between handsome and horrifying, Dorian watches as the demon smirks and sidles closer, both hands winding around Dorian’s neck like a boa, constricting him his breath and his wit with how warm and enticing his touch is.

No. _Its_ touch is.

_Kaffas_ , Dorian is brighter than this and he refuses to be snuffed out by some – some poor excuse for a –

He’s too close. He’s too –

 

Dorian wakes, bolting upright with flames licking at the fingertips of his outstretched hand, ready to banish the fucking demon to whatever hell it came from. But then he realizes.

His hand drops, flames snuffed to mirror his pride.

Breathing heavily, Dorian scrubs his hands over his face and tries not to think.

Dorian’s phone chimes – a second time, he realizes, thanking Andraste for sending him this unintentional savior. Of course, it’s only fitting that it’s Cullen. The _real_ Cullen. All it says is a standard _good morning_.

In reply, Dorian texts, _come over_.

The response is in the form of a phone call, Cullen’s voice sounding worried and _right_ : “Are you alright?” he asks without preamble. Across the line, Dorian can hear a jingle of keys. 

“Fine,” Dorian answers. He doesn’t realize just how rough his voice sounds, as though he’d screamed himself hoarse in his sleep, until Cullen scoffs. “I’m… _fasta vass_. I’ll be fine if you just – I need to see you, here and real.”

“What do you mean?” Cullen’s front door shuts, then there’s the whipping of wind around the phone speaker before another bout of silence, another slam of a door. The engine of Cullen’s SUV turns over.

“I –” Dorian runs a hand through his hair, feeling completely ridiculous. “Narrowly escaped possession, I think.”

Cullen breathes, “ _Maker._ ” 

“Yes.” Clearing his throat, Dorian blinks the dampness from his eyes and cracks his neck. “So. I’m – extremely grateful for your text.” 

“Do you…” Cullen’s pause is telling. Dorian almost wishes Cullen weren’t so considerate. “If you want to tell me about it, please do. Or if there’s…anything I can do to help, just tell me.”

_I’d give you anything you wanted, Dorian._

Letting out a frustrated groan, Dorian says, “No, that’s alright. I’ll –” He takes a deep breath, relishing in the way he can practically hear Cullen’s frown. “I think I’ll take a bath. Just let yourself in when you get here.”

“I – I’ll see you soon,” Cullen says before he hangs up.

Tossing his phone onto the foot of his bed, Dorian forces himself upright and out of bed, naked and strangely vulnerable in the dark of his room. He rushes over and wrenches the curtains open, feeling as though he can breathe for the first time all morning as soon as the sun’s rays begin to warm his face. Steeling himself in the brightness, Dorian allows his dark thoughts to be chased away and then he heads to his bathroom.

The tub fills slowly, even with the faucet set as far as it will go, so Dorian settles himself by searching through his cabinets for rarely used bath salts and a vial of lavender oil. The very second he pops the vial’s cork, the heady, floral scent serves to soothe him.

As soon as he’s submerged into the steaming water, Dorian closes his eyes and rests his head against the lip of the tub.

A knock sounds against the doorframe an undeterminable amount of time later.

The door opens and – 

Dorian’s inhale is shaky, but he forces his eyes open, makes himself look and see that _this_ is Cullen. Curls all disheveled from sleep, pajama pants and thin shirt with a coat and mismatched shoes thrown on in haste – this is Cullen. Honey-gold eyes and – that beautiful, wonderful scar trailing down his face and across his upper lip. 

His next breath is nearly a sob.

Slowly, Cullen comes to the tub, kneeling beside it. He doesn’t try to touch Dorian and it’s a small grace but one that Dorian drinks in greedily. He’s never been so grateful for Cullen’s awkward hesitance.

“Are you alright?” Cullen asks again, softly. 

In lieu of an answer, Dorian reaches one hand out, bathwater dripping from his extended fingers as he delicately touches the Cullen’s scar. He knows that Cullen doesn’t have any feeling in the scar tissue, but this is solely for Dorian’s comfort. It must be uncomfortable for Cullen, though, knelt against the tub like this, but Dorian allows himself to be greedy. Just this once.

With wet hands, Dorian cradles Cullen’s face and meets him in a kiss.

As though he understands, Cullen breaks the kiss relatively quickly, just leaning his head against Dorian’s in a show of solidarity. He doesn’t ask Dorian to elaborate or explain. He just lets his hand drift down to rest on Dorian’s bare shoulders for a moment and then sits back, eyes soft and concerned as he watches Dorian lean back into the steaming water.

“I think you must’ve worked too long last night,” Cullen says, eyebrows drawn.

Dorian snorts. “Says _you_. The king of working late.”

Cullen shrugs and Dorian can feel his eyes studying his movements as he reaches for the shampoo. “It keeps me busy,” is all he says in response.

Normally, Dorian would say the same of himself, but right now that’s more curse than blessing. He’s been working himself ragged, contracting with his previous mentor through his work at Encore. Being a necromancer isn’t in high demand here in the Frostbacks, but Dorian has been able to keep himself fed and clothed and reasonably well-dressed, especially considering this isn’t Tevinter. He’s been so busy trying to help Gereon with his rushed progress in finding a cure for the blight that he’s neglected to take precautions against the exhaustion.

The Fade isn’t dangerous if one is aware of the ways to navigate it, and being a mage, Dorian knows more about it than most. He’s able to manipulate it, to pull through souls of the departed into felled bodies so that their loved ones have a chance to say goodbye, to cast it in a shield around himself, to channel its energy into his own. 

But his willpower, the shored defenses he normally keeps, had been lacking. He’d been too focused on his research to center his mind on recognizing reality and instead left himself open to the tricks of the Fade.

“Copper for your thoughts,” Cullen says quietly.

It’s enough to bring Dorian into the present. The shampoo has frothed and faded, all without Dorian’s notice.

He dunks his hands back into the water and tries again.

“Were you in Ferelden during the last Blight?”

Dorian watches the lines of Cullen’s face harden before he answers, “Yes.”

Nodding, Dorian remembers just enough about their first interaction – almost an entire month ago – to recall that the man was a Templar. He must’ve been stationed in a Circle, then. “So you know what it does to people? How it turns them rotten, inside and out.”

“Yes,” Cullen says again.

“My friend,” Dorian says quietly, scrubbing at the shampoo until it froths enough for him to work into his hair, “Felix, is his name. He contracted the taint – the Blight sickness – after being attacked by hurlocks that killed his mother. I apprenticed under Felix’s father back in Tevinter, back before…” Dorian blinks, hands pausing. They resume, scrubbing vigorously. “Before,” Dorian finishes, resolute. “We’d hit a bit of a roadblock and – it was time for me to leave, anyway.”

“A roadblock?” Cullen asks. He picks up the cup Dorian uses to rinse his hair with and shakes it, offering.

Dorian nods. “In finding a cure. Felix had been doing fine, though, so I never felt too worried.” He scoots forward, tipping his head back for Cullen.

Cullen’s hands are gentle. He shields Dorian’s eyes with one as he pours water over Dorian’s hair. “You’d think the man’s father would try to spend as much time with his son as possible. To enjoy the time they have left together.”

“I can’t even tell you how many times I wanted to say that exact thing to Gereon,” Dorian says. “I believe Felix tried to say as much once. He’s still never told me how that turned out.”

They repeat the process with conditioner.

“It’s just – frustrating,” Dorian says through gritted teeth, “Knowing that modern medicine can only do so much when magic is involved.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “The fucking _Blight_ , darkest of all magics.”

“So, that’s what this contract is for?”

Dorian swallows, wondering why he feels the need to bare his soul. “I could’ve said no.”

“But you didn’t.”

“He’s my friend,” Dorian says. It’s that simple. Dorian’s never considered himself a martyr, but this is more than Gereon should’ve asked of him. “I just hope I’ll be strong enough to do it, when the time comes. Maker knows it’s going to be hard. But Gereon asked for me specifically, so I’m obligated to do it.”

Cullen sighs, pulling himself to stand as Dorian reaches for the drain; he’s kind enough to hold the towel out for Dorian to step into. 

“You know,” he says, “You just might be the strongest person I know.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” Dorian snorts, leading the way back into his bedroom. With the sun shining brightly onto his bed, it feels as though he’s stepped through an Eluvian into Cullen’s room. “You’re the Commander of the Inquisition’s Forces.”

Cullen’s smirk is beautiful, soft, as he follows Dorian onto his bed and beneath the covers, clothes, shoes and all. “Exactly.”


	6. unraveled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time ever, Dorian wakes well before Cullen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's seriously hilarious that we've gone full circle here, paige. 
> 
> enjoy the porn, y'all

For the first time ever, Dorian wakes well before Cullen.

As sickly sweet as it sounds, it’s an opportunity for Dorian to study Cullen in a state of complete and total relaxation. There seem to be no worries in the Fade to crease his brows or pucker his lips, as everything looks slack with sleep and soaked in a strange innocence. While there’s a bit of envy festering away in Dorian’s heart, it does settle him in a way to know that the Fade isn’t always a setting of horrors.

Dorian can’t help but touch Cullen’s face, as if he can siphon some of the peace for himself.

He doesn’t notice that Cullen is awake until his lips pucker in mimicry of a kiss.

Chuckling quietly, Dorian leans in and replaces his fingers with his lips. He burrows further into the blankets, wrapping an arm and leg around Cullen as the kiss deepens and Cullen begins to respond, lazy to lavish in only a handful of moments. They continue kissing, heating the scant space between them until Dorian’s sweltering, shoving the duvet off of them so that he can breathe. Sunlight warms his skin just as much as Cullen’s touch when he rolls to brace himself atop Cullen’s hips.

“Morning,” Cullen gravels, smiling up at Dorian as he rests his hands on Dorian’s hips. “I could definitely get used to this kind of wakeup call.”

“It’s certainly better than an alarm clock, I’d say,” Dorian muses, tracing a pattern onto Cullen’s chest. “More charming. And much more handsome.”

“Absolutely,” Cullen agrees. He casts upward, reaching to settle arms around Dorian’s shoulders and then to work hands up into his hair, kissing him thoroughly as ever.

Dorian goes with it up until the moment tries to roll them, to switch their positions, then he holds strong, grasps Cullen’s wrists and uses his weight to leverage Cullen back against the bed. He laughs when Cullen only raises an eyebrow. It’s not as though Dorian is passive, but this is the first time he’s shown an outward preference for things to progress one way versus another. Cullen is a natural leader, as shy as he is, which is helpful when Dorian isn’t particularly feeling any certain way. But right now, Dorian wants nothing more than to feel Cullen beneath him.

“So that’s how it’s going to go?” Cullen asks around a smirk. His features are soft, open, and the lines of his broad shoulders, arms, chest are gentled, lax.

“Objections?” Dorian retorts.

“None whatsoever,” Cullen says, cheeks blossoming with pink under Dorian’s study.

Dorian quirks a brow. “Do I detect some latent submissive tendencies?” he teases quietly, leaning in to draw his lips and the tip of his nose over Cullen’s cheek just beside his ear.

“I wouldn’t call them latent,” Cullen hedges around a shiver. “Or submissive, particularly.”

“Oh?” Dorian asks, biting down on the sharp curve of Cullen’s jaw.

Letting out a shaky breath, Cullen nods. “Just depends on my mood, I suppose.” His hips rut upwards and Dorian finally takes notice of just how hard he is.

It sparks fire in his blood. “Interesting. I’m, ostensibly, the same way.” 

“That is –” Cullen breaks off to hiss a curse when Dorian bites at his collar bone. “— good information to have.” His hands, now unfettered for Dorian’s exploring, come to rest on Dorian’s nape, pressing, wanting more. “ _Maker_ , Dorian.”

Dorian’s hips twitch at the rasping grind of Cullen’s voice, he bites down harder and _ruts_ , gasping against Cullen’s skin. The bit of sweat they’ve accumulated, from sleep and the sun, serves to provide some slide and Dorian groans at the feel of his cock sliding against Cullen’s in the cradle of their hips. He lifts his head, smirking when he sees just how wild Cullen’s eyes are, pupils blown wide even with the sun casting him golden. 

Without a word, Dorian scoots forward a little, bracing a hand against the mattress by Cullen’s ear and reaches back to grasp Cullen’s cock, jacking it a few times just to watch Cullen’s mouth drop open.

“Good isn’t it?” Dorian asks, voice practically a croon. It drops even lower when he says, “It’ll feel even better when you’re inside me.”

Cullen laughs even as his hips jolt and his cock twitches in Dorian’s hand. “That was a terrible line.”

“Seems to have worked,” Dorian says, giggling a bit before he leans in to kiss Cullen again. It serves as a decent distractor, allowing Dorian to stealthily find the condoms they’d stashed beneath the pillows. He’s considerably less secretive about it when he has to sit up, tear it open, and roll it down onto Cullen, but Cullen’s little confused look, the dawn of realization, the groan he looses when Dorian sinks down onto him – it’s all completely worth it.

“Oh, Maker, Dorian,” Cullen says, “You were right.”

“Of course,” Dorian says, flexing fingers into Cullen’s chest as he tries to relax. It should be easy with how wet and open he still felt from the night before, but well. Cullen’s kind of big. (And disturbingly modest about it, too.) “What about this time though?”

Laughing, neck craned back to bare his throat, Cullen clutches at Dorian’s hips and pants, “It does feel better.”

Dorian rocks his hips as fluidly as he can manage while still getting accustomed to the pressure and stretch, minute little movements that probably only frustrate and tease Cullen, but provide enough friction for Dorian to get a little bit lost in it. 

Bathed in sunlight and open to the air, Dorian feels freer this way, riding Cullen into the distressingly comfortable mattress without a care in the world. 

Vain as he is, though, he does make sure to flex a touch harder, to be sinuous as the serpent that runs down his arm when he begins to ride Cullen with intent. He smirks down at Cullen on a particularly rough thrust and – “ _Fuck_ ,” he yells, slapping a palm down onto Cullen’s pectoral in face of the onslaught of sensation. Cullen’s hand around his cock shouldn’t honestly feel this intense, but in combination with the stretch of him inside and the feel of him between Dorian’s thighs, it’s enough to have him cursing. “ _Festis bei umo canavarum._ ”

“Trade, Dorian,” Cullen chides, sounding much too smug and not nearly as breathless as he should. “I want to know what you’re saying.”

“You’ll be the fucking death of me, _kaffas_ ,” Dorian grits out.

“A small one, maybe,” Cullen says. While Dorian’s busy squeezing his eyes shut, trying not to come, Cullen takes the opportunity to still him, to thrust up in counterpoint to the way he’s stroking Dorian’s cock, and that’s –

Not _fair_.

Whimpering, trembling, Dorian comes all over Cullen’s belly and across his knuckles.

“ _Venhedis_ , Cullen, you –”

With little warning, Dorian’s bereft, empty and clenching around nothing but nearly dried lubricant and air and then his back is against the duvet and Cullen’s looming above him, staring intently at Dorian’s face as he strips his own cock. He’s quick to remove the condom, toss it aside before he leans closer and kisses at Dorian’s jaw and neck.

“Beautiful, Dorian,” Cullen says, stomach flexing as he begins to make the prettiest noises. “So – _oh_ , Maker.” His hand flies over his cock as he comes, striping Dorian’s abdomen with it, his face turned into the side of Dorian’s as he spends himself, shaking.

 

Afterwards, breath still steadying, Cullen tugs Dorian closer and presses a kiss to the side of his head. “Sleep alright?” he asks.

“No nightmares,” Dorian admits quietly. He’s still unused to this level of affection post-coitus, but with each night they spend together, the fact that Cullen seems to actually _like_ Dorian cements a little further. “I don’t know if that’s even possible in this magical bed of yours.”

Cullen hums, a soft little noise of disagreement as he reaches down the bed for the duvet, covering them as their sweat begins to cool. “It is.”

Dorian turns, stretching an arm across Cullen’s chest as he looks up at his face. From this angle, he’s all jaw, the line of it tenser than it should be right after sex. “Recently?” Dorian asks.

“No, not –” He pauses, caught in a half-smile. “Not when you’re here, strangely.” Again, Cullen kisses Dorian’s temple. “Quick nap and then pancakes?”

Dorian pretends to swoon. “You’re a man after my own heart.”


	7. afar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gull and Lantern is a dreary, dull place with far less selection than Dorian had hoped to see after a week like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a bit of canon-typical character death in this one and some related h/c

The Gull and Lantern is a dreary, dull place with far less selection than Dorian had hoped to see after a week like this. 

Reanimation is second-nature to Dorian, but generally it’s to affirm last wishes or to settle some sort of familial dispute. This, though? This is nothing like anything he’s had to do before, and…to an old friend, it’s just. Wrong. This isn’t what necromancy is meant to be. It’s…while it’s always been viewed as somewhat darker magic, it’s been used as a means of protection on the battlefield or brief comfort for those who didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. 

It’s not about this – this sick, twisted inability to let go.

Felix hadn’t wanted this, not really, but he loved his father so he’d agreed to it anyway. Just like Dorian.

Watching him falter, deteriorate, stagger towards the Fade had been almost more than Dorian could handle. Gereon’s misdirected wrath on top of that? 

Well. Dorian’s here at the bar for a reason.

The bartender recommended a bottle, aptly named Dragon Piss, when Dorian introduced himself by saying, “If my day got any worse, I’d be dead. On second thought, death might be a blessing at this point.” So far, he’s only had one glass – burning him through as though his soul itself was set on fire – and it feels like it’s more than plenty. Of course that just means it’s time to pour himself another.

After one more glass, Dorian asks the bartender to recork the bottle so he can take it up to his room and mourn in peace. He leaves a couple of sovereigns for the bottle and a silver for a tip, uncaring of how it may look as he runs a hand through his hair and tucks the bottle under his arm. 

It’s not until his phone rings that Dorian realizes he’s tucked himself between strange, scratchy sheets and has been staring into middle distance, at absolutely nothing, for quite some time. 

“ _Avanna_ ,” Dorian says automatically into the receiver.

“Hello, Dorian? Um.”

Ah, yes. Right. Trade. “Sorry,” Dorian says, “Hello, my dear Commander. What’s got you calling so late?”

Cullen sounds more like he’s asking when he states, “There’s a dog?”

“A dog.”

“It’s –” Cullen chuckles nervously, “It’s in my kitchen, now, but. I think it chose me.”

Dorian’s definitely drunk, but now he’s doubting Cullen’s sobriety. “Chose you? How does a dog choose someone? Did it lift its leg to mark you as its territory?”

“Hah! Um, no, Dorian, it did not.” Across the line Dorian hears a high yip. “He’s, uh. Not leaving though. And he looks to be a mabari, and if he is, then that means he imprinted, so…it looks like he’s staying for good. You’re not allergic to dogs, are you?”

Dorian laughs, head swimming. He casts about for the bottle of Dragon Piss, takes a burning swig and answers, “Not that I’m aware of. Horses, yes, and stripweed, of course.”

“Well, good. Because this pup is – _no! No_ , don’t chew on that.” Cullen’s voice is firm, steady, and when he says, “Good, good boy. Stay,” something in Dorian’s blood heats. And it’s _not_ the godawful ale. 

“Oh, _my_ ,” Dorian enthuses, sinking deeper into the terrible sheets, “I do quite like the way that sounds. Say it again, Cullen.”

Cullen laughs, clearly embarrassed, and Dorian can just imagine the shade of pink his cheeks and ears have turned. “ _No_ ,” Cullen says, either aghast or exasperated, “Maker, Dorian.” He sighs, and the smile is audible in his voice when he asks, “How are you?”

“ _Drunk_ ,” Dorian answers, “I’m currently drinking a bottle of Dragon Piss, some ancient vintage I persuaded the bartender to let me try. It’s about as awful as you’d imagine, given the name.” He muses, “I certainly hope it’s ale and not, you know, _actual_ dragon piss.”

Again, Cullen sighs, and this time, Dorian’s expecting it when he asks, “But are you alright?”

Dorian is a master of deflection, but Cullen is stubborn as a bronto, tenacious as a – whatever those large, fluffy beasts are that Fereldans seem to keep as pets rather than for, say, ranches. “Druffalo?”

“What?”

“Those huge horned creatures, the ones that snort and stomp about. They’re called druffalo, right?”

“Dorian…”

“I’m avoiding the question,” Dorian points out, “In case you didn’t notice. Because I’d much rather not think about how spectacularly awful it was to retrieve my best friend’s soul from the Fade and stuff it back into his decaying body just so his father could –” He breaks off, air stuck in his suddenly dry throat. 

“Oh, Maker,” Cullen says, “I didn’t realize that was – I’m so sorry.”

“Today, yes. Redcliffe is an absolute shithole by the way, if you were wondering. Stinks of fish and pious revered mothers and sisters from the Chantry. No offense.” Dorian blinks away the hot tears smudging the kohl he neglected to wash from his eyes. He takes another swig of the ale straight from the bottle. “Tell me more of this ‘pup,’ Cullen. What does it look like? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a mabari. They’re certainly not native to Tevinter.”

Cullen clears his throat. “He’s, uh…” It’s funny how Dorian can picture the exact way Cullen’s rubbing at his nape. “I’m not any good with words, Dorian.”

“Try your best.”

Laughing softly, Cullen says, “Well. You’ll get along with Mia just fine.”

_Mia._ One of Cullen’s sisters. That’s – a lot to think about.

“Um, he’s…a _he_. Definitely. And brown, but not – not dark, like most mabari I’ve seen, but sort of sand-colored with a bit of red. He’s got a black muzzle and a little spot under his eye.” Cullen huffs a laugh. “Sort of like you.”

“A beauty mark on a dog,” Dorian muses, “That must be a sight to see. How old do you think he is?”

“Not sure,” Cullen answers. There’s a strange huffing, some crackling and then the line clears again. “ _Ugh_. Still young enough to show affection by licking my face, if you were wondering.”

“Deplorable,” Dorian states. “Also, I’m surprised to find I have that in common with your dog.”

Cullen’s laugh is enough to warm the ache Dorian’s carried all week in his neck and shoulders, as though Cullen was standing behind him as he likes to do, nuzzling into Dorian and bearing his weight. It’s – frightening. But comforting as well. Getting used to being so affectionate – being able to _show_ affection without any repercussions or fear of rejection – is something new altogether.

“What about his ears?” Dorian asks, “Are they huge and floppy like those hilarious fennecs you like to compare me to so often?”

“No, no,” Cullen says, amusement coloring his tone, “He’s much more regal than that. Sharp things, his ears. If he’s anything like you, he’ll want a little golden ring through one.”

“Oh, ha _ha_ ,” Dorian drawls. He hears a bark across the line, this high little yipping thing, and then Cullen gives an, “ _Oof_.” Dorian laughs. “See? He agrees. Our sense of style is clearly far superior.”

Cullen hums. “I might need your help picking out a collar then.” His voice goes soft, light. “When will you return?”

“Checkout is at noon so, relatively early in the evening, if the drive goes well.”

“Well. You’re more than welcome to come straight here,” Cullen offers, “That way you can still get your Sunday pancakes – and you can meet the dog.”

“You know,” Dorian says, “I just might take you up on that.”

Across the line, the dog barks and Cullen chuckles.


	8. premonition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The leash seems to be precautionary to Dorian, because the pup looks content to stick directly by Cullen’s side – at least until Dorian distracts him with a handful of conjured snowflakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for all the wonderful comments y'all!!! :)

Dorian can’t help but sneak looks at Cullen as he bends to tie his boots while the puppy – now collared with a winding, dark leather braid tagged with a silver feather inscribed with Cullen’s information – yips and hops around his legs. The poor thing is still nameless, being referred to as, “Pup,” while Cullen tries to think of something better, but at least it’s clear that the animal is clearly infatuated with him regardless.

“Will you grab my coat, please?” Cullen asks.

At first, Dorian thinks it’s directed at him, but the dog jumps into action, racing towards the plush green couch in the living room to drag the (monstrous) thing from one of its arms. He lays it at Cullen’s feet and looks up at him, tongue lolling as though he’s extraordinarily pleased with himself.

Cullen’s hand looks huge as he reaches down to scratch between the pup’s ears. “Good boy.”

“He seems…very intelligent,” Dorian muses. “Absurdly so, for a puppy.”

The leash seems to be precautionary to Dorian, because the pup looks content to stick directly by Cullen’s side – at least until Dorian distracts him with a handful of conjured snowflakes. Though Dorian expected to receive a disapproving eyebrow-quirk, all Cullen does is laugh, watching his pup dance about, trying to catch them before they disappear.

“Alright,” Cullen says lightly after he’s shrugged on his coat, “Ready?”

“We’ve been waiting on you, my dear Commander,” Dorian points out. The pup yips in agreement, wagging its tail and nosing towards the door, and Dorian can’t help but laugh. “See?”

“Maker,” Cullen says under his breath, “Now I have two of you to sass me.”

“I heard that.” 

Dorian follows still, pondering the implications of that. The exasperation is light-hearted, of course, but Dorian – honestly, he’s surprised at how much he likes the idea of Cullen thinking he can’t get rid of him. It’s probably not a very healthy thought to have, but Dorian finds it supremely hard to care.

“Besides,” he continues once he’s made it to Cullen’s side, “You like the way I sass you.”

They don’t do anything quite so affectionate as holding hands as they walk down the sidewalk towards Skyhold, but Dorian’s still half expecting some narrow-minded comments or derisive glares shot his way by passersby because of how close together they are. Instead, they’re enraptured by the mabari, not so much as looking at Cullen or Dorian. Even after all this time, he hates that he has to remind himself that this isn’t Tevinter. He won’t be persecuted for his affiliations nor inclinations. 

If anything, they might tackle him to the street because of the staff strapped to his back. 

Cullen hasn’t said a word about it, but Dorian did catch him eyeing it when he arrived, leaning it against the wall near his shoes before they chatted over coffee and decided that brunch out might be a nice change of pace. (Though Dorian did _try_ to get Cullen to make some savory pancakes again, to no avail.)

“I’ve never asked outright,” Dorian says, breaking the peaceful silence between them. “My…being a mage, does it cause you any discomfort?” 

Glancing at Dorian before training his eyes back on the pup, Cullen’s mouth purses and then he answers, “I’ll admit, at times, I’ve forgotten you were a mage.” His face relaxes once more as they crest the nearest hill and Skyhold’s towering structure comes into view. “But, no. It’s not something you can help, your nature, that is.”

Dorian’s quiet, contemplative.

“It’s similar, is what I’ve discovered. Mages use magic the way Seekers and Templars negate it; it’s a means of protection, too, like the way I use weapons.” Cullen shrugs and the mabari gives a woof that would probably sound intimidating if he weren’t still such a pipsqueak. He settles when Cullen tells him to. “More natural, even.”

“That’s a very…open-minded assessment,” Dorian says, honestly surprised. 

Cullen shrugs. “It’s taken some time to get there.”

Skyhold looms above them and, the closer they get, anxiety starts to press in on Dorian’s shoulders. Cullen waltzes through the open gate and into the main courtyard, looking back at Dorian over his shoulder, mirroring the pup.

Dorian steels himself and walks in with his head held high.

He’s surprised, honestly, when he sees a handful of mages – staves strapped to their backs or casually leaned on as they talk and laugh – inside of Skyhold’s gates. There are dwarves and elves and humans, a lone Quanari, too. Nobody seems to be at anyone else’s throats and the only weapons carried out in the open are blunted for training rather than causing true injury. A human child is being chased by a mishmash of all kinds, and Dorian can see housing units in the distance, can hear dogs barking and horses and mounts of all kinds neighing from the stables. And well. 

Maybe Tevinter had similar preconceived notions about Ferelden. Maybe he won’t get burnt at the stake for being who he is. Maybe he’s been judging people more harshly than they deserved.

What a stupid way to go about things.

“Come,” Cullen says, “I’ve already talked to Cabot; you’re allowed inside.”

“Oh, good,” Dorian intones sarcastically, “I was so worried.”

Cullen rolls his eyes with a smile and follows through when Dorian holds the door open for him and the pup. 

Inside, the space is larger than it might’ve seemed, full of tables and chairs, a full bar, and stairs leading up to at least one more level. There’s heat from both the kitchen and the fire warming the place, flickering additional shadows cast from windows letting in the late morning light. It’s cozy, too, with wooden accents and silken tapestries that, while they look ancient, seem to be in good repair. 

It has all the look of a tavern from the middle ages. 

Dorian loves it already.

“What can I get for you, Commander?” a dwarf with facial tattoos reminiscent of Orzammar asks. He looks to be completely unimpressed with the mabari panting up at him from Cullen’s feet beneath the table. “So, you finally brought him in. Too bad Cassandra’s already come and gone.”

“Yes,” Cullen says with a nervous chuckle, “Too bad. Um, could you get us a pot of tea and some bread? Dorian’s never been here before, so he’ll need time to look over the menu.”

The dwarf leaves without a word. 

“Charming fellow,” Dorian muses, plucking a menu from the table top. He peruses the brunch section, already honing in on a soufflé that looks delicious, stuffed with cheese and peppers and dill. “I’ll have you know, you’ve ruined me for all other pancakes.”

“Oh?” Cullen asks around a smirk.

“Don’t look so smug, Commander,” Dorian retorts. Beneath the table, one of Cullen’s feet nudges against his own. 

Once Cabot returns with drinks and breads, and they’ve each placed their orders, Cullen leans back against his chair, arms crossed as he studies Dorian. 

“What?” Dorian hedges. 

“How have we been together for two full months already and _this_ is the first meal we’ve had out together?”

Dorian snorts. “Together? Cullen, you can’t just assume we’re together,” Dorian says haughtily, delighting in the brief panic that flits across Cullen’s features. “I’ll need to be asked officially. Preferably in some horribly cute, teeth-rotting way that makes for a good story when people ask us. We can’t just say, ‘Oh, we met at a bar; it was a one-night stand that turned into a bit more.’ That’s terrible. What will we tell our children?”

And, okay, that last bit had been more than slightly sarcastic, but Cullen’s eyes light up and – that’s something to think about. Excitement about the future. 

The _distant_ future.

Cullen plays along, though. “That Tyrdda Bright-Axe herself delivered us to one another atop silver shields we rode down the mountains to the foothills,” he says, going on to explain, “Because we’ve adopted them from an Avvar village, right?”

“As long as my shield was flaming, then sure. I suppose that’ll work.”

Chuckling, Cullen agrees, “Oh, yes, of course.”


	9. choose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian can’t quite believe his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> paige, this might actually be the fluffiest shit i've ever written omfg

Dorian can’t quite believe his eyes. Given, it is an absurd hour and it’s possible that he might be slightly hungover – but he truly cannot get his brain make the connection that this, here, is Cullen in Dorian’s bedroom, a tray full of delicious smelling stack of fluffy pancakes surrounded by bright accoutrements: fresh fruits and a vase filled halfway with water, a spray of white daisies around a single bell of crystal grace.

It’s literally something out of one of Dorian’s mother’s godawful romance novels.

Somehow, the first thing that comes to Dorian’s mind is: “Where’s Pup?”

Cullen huffs a laugh, looking bright and nervous in the light shining through Dorian’s curtains. (He must’ve forgotten to close them.) “I already put him in the backyard,” he answers. 

“Ah.” Dorian struggles to sit upright, squinting into the sun and tired as he is. “I do so miss being licked awake.”

“I _could_ arrange for that to happen,” Cullen offers, teasing smirk playing at his lips. He’s still standing awkwardly just inside the doorway, holding the tray with white knuckles and bags beneath his eyes.

He’s never looked so handsome. 

“No, no,” Dorian says, “Come. Sit. Stay awhile.” He pats at the spot next to him on the mattress. “Or feed me breakfast and then go, if it’s all the same to you, I don’t mind.”

Cullen crosses the room carefully, the plate and glass rattling on the tray as he places it just over Dorian’s lap. “I’d rather the former,” he says quietly, tacking on a teasing, “if you don’t mind.” 

“What kind are these?” Dorian asks, ready to start digging in. It all just smells so wonderful. The blueberries and strawberries are sprinkled atop a bowl of whipped cream. “You made enough for us both, right? Because I just might have to fight you for all of these.”

Laughing, Cullen rounds the bed and comes to sit next to Dorian, nuzzling against his face before pressing a solitary kiss to the side of his mouth. Dorian can’t help but smile, feeling – he wouldn’t dare to say it – extremely cared for. “There’s more in the kitchen.”

“Good,” Dorian says, popping a piece of fruit into his mouth. “Best go get them all. These will probably be gone before you even get back.”

“Wait, wait, put the silverware down, I need to do this properly,” Cullen says, nerves returning as he takes a deep, shaky breath. 

Highly amused, Dorian does as he says and crosses his arms over his bare chest. “Go on, then.”

“Dorian,” Cullen says –

And, _oh_ , is Dorian going to get a kick out of this production. 

“One week ago today, you informed me that I failed you. I’ve not gone about this properly.” Cullen takes Dorian’s hands in his own, a soft cradle texturized by calluses and rings. “Would you do me the pleasure of being my lover, my confidante, my official and exclusive boyfriend?”

Dorian can’t help but quip, “How long did it take you to memorize that?” He snickers, before leaning in to kiss the frown from Cullen’s lips. “Sorry, sorry.” Dorian clears his throat, sitting up straight before he looks Cullen in his soft, honeyed eyes, “Yes, Cullen. I will be your – boyfriend? Is that really what you lot call it?”

“Maker,” Cullen breathes before kissing Dorian almost harshly. “You’re a shit.”

“Now I’m _your_ shit.” Dorian feels the pounding of Cullen’s heart against his shoulder as they lounge against Dorian’s pillows, faces turned towards each other’s. He smiles at seeing the broad grin that crinkles Cullen’s eyes. “Are you going to feed me this delicious meal, or are we going to have to breakup already? It’d be such a shame.”

“No need for that,” Cullen says, sitting more upright so that Dorian can better lean into his chest. He reaches for the fork and knife, delicately cutting through the pancake pile before placing the bite against Dorian’s lips. His eyes look so serious when Dorian takes it and chews, saying, “I’m here to do your bidding.”

Dorian shivers. “For the foreseeable future?”

“As long as you’ll have me,” Cullen admits, feeding Dorian another bite. 

Humming, Dorian delights in the meal, the power, the affection. He’s – not remotely surprised at how wonderful this feels. It’s only been two months, halfway to three, but he’s never felt surer about someone else’s feelings for him as he feels with Cullen. He’s a shy man, but earnest and honest and doesn’t sugar coat much. He deals with Dorian’s sass in a delightfully fresh way and dishes it back just about as frequently. 

He’s never felt so comfortable to be himself – not since Felix, and Felix had never been a lover. 

Dorian shoos Cullen into the kitchen after another luxurious bite, wanting to share this feeling with his – boyfriend. (Tevene is much less juvenile in Dorian’s humble opinion.) “And you can let Pup in,” Dorian calls once Cullen’s disappeared, “I promise not to feed him any.”

Cullen doesn’t respond verbally, but Dorian hears the clicking of paws rushing over wooden floors and then Pup’s in the doorway, yipping and trying to hop on the bed to give Dorian some very enthusiastic kisses. Dorian’s letting the dog lick his non-dominant hand when Cullen returns.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to feed him,” Cullen says after a sigh.

“It’s not what it looks like, I assure you.” Dorian directs the, “Right, Pup?” to the dog and smiles when he barks in agreement. “See?”

“You’re lucky I can tell if he’s lying,” Cullen says, and then, “Pup, sit.” When the dog listens, Cullen throws him a torn-off bit of pancake which he chomps happily.

Dorian glares.

Cullen pays him no mind, just cuts into his pancakes with the tiniest smirk.

“I thought you said, ‘No human food, Dorian, we shouldn’t spoil him,’” Dorian points out in a terrible imitation of Cullen’s voice. He rolls his eyes when Cullen tries to give him excuses and then says, “Hypocrisy is very unbecoming of such an esteemed commander, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s just this once,” Cullen placates, “Look, he’s not even begging.”

“Well, not _now_. But the second you leave to take our plates – which you will very much do, my dear boyfriend – he’s going to turn the puppy eyes onto me. And I’ll feel bad because I have nothing left to give him.”

Sighing, Cullen says, “At least he’s comfortable with you.”

“ _Hah_ ,” Dorian says, “He’s more than just ‘comfortable,’ I’d say. In fact, I believe I’d go so far as to say I am his favorite.”

Cullen gives a derisive snort. “He imprinted on me.”

“Oh, but I’ve done research. You’re supposed to introduce him to others with kaddis smothered all about their wrists and neck, correct?”

“…maybe you already smelled like me,” Cullen tries.

“ _Or_ , he instinctively decided to love me more than you. _Without_ bribes.” Dorian takes the last bite of his pancakes and says, “I rest my case.” He smirks at Cullen’s exasperated smile. “Besides, can you blame him? It’s the charm and good looks, I’ll bet. Not many can resist.”

Cullen nods in acquiescence, a brow flicking upwards as he tries to fight a smile. “It certainly worked on me.”

“Pup, come to your favorite,” Dorian commands. He makes kissy noises and laughs when the dog finally vaults up onto the bed. He’s closing his eyes in anticipation of dog-slobber on his neck and chin, but instead, Cullen laughs. Dorian opens his eyes, ready to glare, but instead –

“There’s your answer,” Cullen says, gesturing at the dog – sitting primly between both of them, one ear perked and tongue lolling as he looks between them both – with his fork. “He refuses to choose.”

Dorian sighs and rolls his eyes before leaning forward to scratch between Pup’s ears.


	10. sweet nothings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _Amatus_ ,” Dorian gravels, voice roughened from being pulled from the thick of the Fade. “Your dog needs out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally contemplated calling this "salty somethings" (bc it's the opposite of sweet nothings, right) and realized it was waaaay too apt

“ _Amatus_ ,” Dorian gravels, voice roughened from being pulled from the thick of the Fade. “Your dog needs out.”

There’s a groan from the other side of the bed and then Cullen’s sleepily scrubbing at his eyes, ending with a soft brush into his curls. “Why is it that whenever it’s the middle of the night, he’s _my_ dog?” 

Dorian doesn’t deign to respond, letting Pup’s urgent yips do the job of coaxing Cullen from between the sheets and onto the cold wooden floors. He’s already in sleep pants, which is more than usual, so they shouldn’t have to worry about Pup making a mess of the floor. Dozing, Dorian only startles a little bit whenever Cullen returns, the formerly yipping pup probably stowed away in his fluffy little bed now. 

Cullen spoons up behind Dorian, grumbling half into the pillow and Dorian’s hair. Dorian jolts at the cool touch of his nose and hands. 

“ _Kaffas,_ ” Dorian hisses, trying to wriggle free, “Get off of me, you’re _freezing_.”

Laughter, low and heady, settles against Dorian’s skin even as Cullen releases him. 

“It’s not funny,” Dorian grumbles, shivering, “ _Venhedis_ , you shit.”

“So much Tevene in the early morning, Pavus,” Cullen says, yanking the covers back his way and, thus, Dorian back into his space. “Are you ever going to teach me all the ways you curse me?” Before he dares to put his hands on Dorian’s skin again, Cullen blows on his cupped hands, rubbing them together for some friction. “What was that first one you said? Ama…something?”

Confused, Dorian grumbles, “’s not a curse…”

“Say it again?”

“ _Amatus_ ,” Dorian repeats, burrowing deeper into the comforter and back into Cullen. Now that his hands are warm enough to match his voice, Dorian’s more willing to allow his touch and his talk. “Means…boyfriend, essentially. More like ‘lover,’ I suppose.”

Cullen hums against Dorian’s shoulder, leeching heat with the tip of his still cold nose. “So you were actually being sweet? My,” he says quietly, “what a day it must be.”

“Day? _Kaffas_ , it’s still dark out,” Dorian complains when he looks back over his shoulder and squints his eyes open. “Cullen, I love your dog, but he needs to understand the meaning of beauty sleep. I’m going to have awful, droopy bags beneath my eyes for days.”

“For someone who argues so vehemently over a dog’s affections, you certainly enjoy calling him solely mine.” Because he very much so deserves it, Dorian nudges an elbow back into Cullen’s stomach, just to hear him give a soft, “ _Oof._ ”

“Pup loves me most, but he is _your_ dog.” Dorian snorts. “It’s not as though I’m going to lovingly scoop up his shit and bag it when we’re out.”

“Ah,” Cullen hums, snuggling in closer. Probably to avoid additional errant elbows. “Now the truth comes to light: you just want free affection but none of the responsibility.” 

Dorian’s voice is light when he says, “I suppose we’re lucky it was you he imprinted on.”

Cullen’s lips press to Dorian’s nape, trailing forward across the softer skin of his neck and then up his jaw. “Mm,” Cullen hums against Dorian’s mouth. Between kisses, he asks, “What was that word? _Amatus?_ ”

Shivering, Dorian finds it far too easy to relax and open up to Cullen, allowing him to settle in the cradle of his body once he’s finally urged onto his back. Dorian’s arms twine behind Cullen’s neck, and he huffs when Cullen drops more of his weight in the midst of shifting. Their noses bump on the next kiss and Dorian laughs. “Pronunciation’s a bit off, but yes. You’ve got the bare bones.”

“Speaking of bare bones,” Cullen says, trailing up Dorian’s cheek to that beauty mark on the crest of his cheekbone, “Are you still feeling okay about work?”

Dorian sighs. “Can we not talk about that now?” He tries to keep the whine out of his voice, aiming for sultry when he goes on to add, “In fact, I can think of a much better use for that mouth of yours, _Amatus._ ”

“Ah, and what might that be?” he asks lightly, stubble skimming the skin of Dorian’s throat. Cullen’s awfully playful this morning; it’s equally disgusting and delicious. 

Dorian shivers, fisting fingers in Cullen’s curls. Untamed like this, he looks all the part of a Chantry boy, young and bright-eyed despite the early hour and their rude awakening. Maker, but it’s doing things – terrible, _terrible_ things – to Dorian’s libido. 

“If you’d be so kind as to suck me, Commander,” Dorian says, “I’d be more than happy to return the favor.”

Chuckling against Dorian’s throat, Cullen starts his descent with a growling nip. “As you wish,” he says.

While Dorian’s always thought Cullen’s fingers to be wicked, his tongue is more so, twisting and curling around the head of his cock in slow, slick, luxurious swipes, simply getting him wet before sinking down to envelop Dorian in the most sinful heat. For a mouth that recites the Chant of Light so easily, Cullen’s capable of some incredibly shameless acts. Dorian can’t even see him beneath the covers, just the movement of his head, but it makes the feeling all that more intense as everything is a surprise. He takes Dorian deep – deep, and _holding_ , so good that Dorian can’t help but cry out, fingers snagging in Cullen’s hair.

His breath hitches in his chest. “ _Kaffas, Amatus_ , you’re so – that’s so _good_ ,” he pants.

Cullen hums in acknowledgement and that’s – enough.

Dorian comes, hard, twitching and trying to curl in on himself at the sensation, pushing at Cullen’s shoulder when it gets to be too much. He’s still breathing, hard, when Cullen slinks back up his body to kiss him, sharing his taste. 

Rutting against his hip, Cullen’s showing much more restraint than Dorian would be capable of, given the circumstances, so Dorian takes pity and pants, “You can fuck my mouth.”

Loudly, Cullen groans, kissing Dorian harshly, more teeth than tongue, before he kneels up at the headboard just over Dorian’s mouth, sleep pants cast aside. Almost tenderly, Cullen cups Dorian’s cheek.

He slides in, thick and heavy on Dorian’s tongue, in and in and _in_. Dorian doesn’t choke, but it’s a near thing, because while the pleasure must be overwhelming given the way Cullen’s moaning, he’s still a man of control, able to tell when to stop taking. “Oh, _Maker_ , Dorian,” he breathes, head craning back until all Dorian can see is the curve of his chest.

Dorian sucks while Cullen thrusts and it’s the perfect kind of position for Dorian to be almost completely lazy while Cullen does the hard work. Stretching his arms up and around Cullen’s thighs, Dorian scrapes his fingers into the coarse hair and hums, trying to show his appreciation with limited options.

Cullen grunts and floods Dorian’s mouth bitter, whimpering when Dorian continues to swallow.

When Cullen pulls out and manages to flop back down onto the mattress next to Dorian, he breathes a little laugh and says, “ _Maker._ ”

“ _Dorian_ is fine, really.” Rolling his shoulders, Dorian cracks his neck and then scoots in close to Cullen, snuggling up under his arm when its lifted, heedless of their sweat. “Now I’m in the mood for something sweet.”

Eyes closed, Cullen absently plays with Dorian’s hair and hums. “Mm, just remembered we’re out of syrup. I s’pose I could make some whipped cream, cut up some fruit. Sound good?”

“Perfect, _Amatus_. You spoil me rotten.”

Cullen barks a laugh, one of the rare, eye-crinkling ones. “Pretty sure you were like that when I got you.”


	11. headway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian sighs melodramatically. “They grow up so fast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY DEAR PAIGE, I hope this marks the beginning of unrelenting good shit in your life.

The moment he’s through the door, Cullen’s there, wrapping him up in this huge hug without saying a word, as though it’s been weeks since they’ve seen each other rather than a handful of days. Given, that visit had been rather brief and the week had been…trying. A quick kiss and an unfulfilling meal – not due to Cullen’s cooking, but rather because Dorian got called in for an emergency case –did _not_ suffice.

“It’s nice to see you, Pavus,” Cullen says, looking far too smug as they part. 

Dorian rolls his eyes. “Of course. My face alone is a sight for the sorest of eyes; it doesn’t hurt that I’m incredibly charming, witty, and well-dressed.”

“Humble, too.” It’s clear that Cullen can’t quite keep from smiling, by the way his whistle for Pup falters. He gives up, ignoring Dorian’s laugh, and calls the dog in from where he’d been frantically pacing the kitchen, waiting for Cullen’s okay. “I made coffee for you, by the way. If you leash him, I’ll grab it for you.”

Making a kissy noise, Dorian pets Pup after he brings his leash, attaching it with a flourish and a, “There we go.”

He pretends he’s said no such thing when Cullen returns with a pair of thermoses full of coffee and an eyebrow raised. Instead, he opens the door and saunters through, Pup rushing to lead with a lolling grin the moment that Dorian whistles sharply. Of course, Cullen doesn’t let it lie, though, as he chuckles and mutters, “Fennec.”

“I raise the _dead_ for a living, Rutherford,” Dorian protests at Cullen, “Don’t you dare insinuate that I’m soft.”

Cullen just purses his lips, nearly smirking, and follows. 

By the time they’ve made it to Skyhold, Pup’s no longer able to simply stay by either Cullen or Dorian’s side, too busy straining against the leash to follow scents on the breeze, woofing almost under his breath whenever someone draws too near. It’s vaguely annoying that all Cullen has to do is calmly say, “Heel,” and Pup acts as though he’s been level the entire time, but Dorian’s relegated to tugging at the leash and trying not to plead for reprieve. Cullen’s insufferably smug about it all, of course. He’s distracting enough that Dorian almost doesn’t notice whenever Pup barks – in recognition. 

The woman approaching has dark hair in an artful bun, skin a touch darker than Dorian’s, and beautiful pouty-pink lips. When she greets them (or, the dog, really) with a, “Well, hello! Look at you!” it’s clearer that she’s of Antivan descent, not Tevinter. Her consonants are almost as round and rolling as her vowels. 

Pup’s in heaven getting his ears scratched while Cullen says, laughing, “Hi, Josephine.”

As she rights herself, Josephine rolls her shoulders back and fixes Cullen with a smile before eyeing Dorian. “Oh, how rude of me,” she says, extending a hand for Dorian to shake, “Josephine Montilyet. You must be Dorian Pavus.”

“Ah,” Dorian says, giving her hand a shake before fussing with Pup’s leash as he tries to circle them all searching for more scritches. “I see my reputation precedes me. You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid. Cullen’s loathe to speak of work unless it’s to complain about the mountains of paperwork.”

Josephine laughs, this delightful little thing, like the pleasant surprise of wind chimes tinkling in the breeze – a startling reminder of home, an aunt or an untainted memory of his mother. A, “ _Very good, Dorian!_ ” when he conjures a small flurry of ice crystals, looking to her immediately to flash a grin before forcing it to intensify, mana surging until his mother laughs, clapping her hands – 

“That would be partially my fault,” she admits, freeing Dorian from his reverie. “Not so much as Leliana, though.”

“That name certainly seems familiar,” Dorian says after clearing his throat. “That and his second-in-command. Cassandra, was it?”

Cullen groans, covering his face and looking balefully at Pup while Josephine laughs. “It’s so much worse when we’re all together with the Inquisitor, I assure you,” she says. “Cullen must simply _love_ being the only male in the war room. I can’t even begin to tell you how often Leliana tells him to just stand there and look pretty.”

“He is rather good at that,” Dorian agrees, smirking as he nudges his hip into Cullen’s. “And most of his ideas are rather…straight-forward.”

“Hey!”

“I keep saying she’s a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen, but –”

“She’s harmless,” Cullen finishes for her, waving a hand, “And involved with a Warden, if I remember correctly. Please, Josephine, you can discard the write-ups.”

“No, no,” Josephine says lightly, “I’m keeping them. For blackmail, if nothing else.”

Cullen sighs, shaking his head. “Evil masterminds,” he says, “All of you.”

“So tactful, Commander,” Josephine teases. She waves a hand, lashes fluttering as she grins. “Regardless, I’m off to Redcliffe to meet with the Arl. Try not to get into too much trouble while I’m gone!”

Dorian chuckles. “Be sure to request a bottle of Dragon Piss if you happen by the Gull and Lantern while you’re there. The first sip is the worst – after that it’s all burn and no flavor.” Josephine laughs brightly, only able to say, “I’ll keep that in mind,” after she’s regained her composure and Dorian is absolutely _delighted_ with her. As soon as she’s gone, Dorian turns to Cullen, leash still wound around his wrist, and says, “I _like_ her. Tell me more about how these women objectify you.”

Laughing, Cullen bumps his shoulder into Dorian’s as they begin making their way through the compound of Skyhold, winding past market stalls and picturesque park-scenery into the back end where the stables and barn stand and matching burly, glaring men work. A bit of a ways off, there’s an entrance to the dog park, signified by a large, cartoonish wood-carved bone.

“How quaint,” Dorian comments, casting a look at all the other dogs unleashed while their owners either sit and chat with one another or throw various balls or Frisbees or sticks. “Pup, you’re far more distinguished than the rest of this rabble. Please do try to set the bar, mm?”

In response, Pup gives a low woof and then spins in a circle before sitting.

Cullen’s the one to unclip the leash, allowing Pup to roam free, sniffing at trees and flowers and other dogs before lifting a leg to claim some territory. “You don’t have to watch him so closely, love. I’ll be able to tell if he’s in trouble.”

Dorian sighs melodramatically. “They grow up so fast.”

Chuckling, Cullen knocks into Dorian’s shoulder and presses a quick kiss to his temple. He doesn’t say anything, but the look he shoots Dorian is – _meaningful_. Longing, perhaps.

After a handful of moments, Cullen clears his throat. “So,” he says.

“So,” Dorian parrots.

Cullen doesn’t deign to roll his eyes, but the essence of the gesture can still be inferred from his flat expression. “So, next week is First Day,” he eventually starts. 

“Ah.” 

Just as Dorian’s rationalizing to himself that it wouldn’t be the first Annum he’s spent alone, Cullen asks, “I was wondering if you’d like to come with me? To South Reach.” He quickly backtracks, “Of course, don’t feel obligated. I just – you told me you were taking a few days off and I thought –”

“Amatus,” Dorian says. It’s surreal, here with the wind rushing through the trees and dogs barking and Cullen standing in the sunshine looking all the pious Chantry-boy with his golden blonde curls and delightfully cherubic, anxious smile. “I’d – You want me to meet your family?”

“You said you weren’t going home to see yours, so I thought – well. Yes.”

“…This is kind of a big deal, Cullen,” Dorian tries to point out. “It’s only been –”

Cullen doesn’t quite sigh, but he does make a soft noise, eyes shining as their focus shifts from Dorian’s mouth up to his eyes. “ _You’re_ a big deal to me, Dorian.”

Dorian thinks his eyes might be leaking. He tries to hastily swipe at one with a gloved finger, but he probably only succeeds in smudging the day-old kohl. “Say anything like that in public again and I’ll be forced to do something…something – I don’t know what, but it’ll hurt. And you’ll have learned your lesson.” He crosses his arms as best as he can with the coffee still held in one hand, and tries to keep from pouting as he replays the words over and over again. Chancing a glance at Cullen’s face, Dorian realizes: “You’re not even remotely sorry, are you?”

Smug doesn’t even begin to cover Cullen’s expression. “Not in the least bit, no.”


	12. learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian tells himself he isn’t nervous up until the moment Cullen’s pulling the key from the ignition, hand squeezing Dorian’s thigh, and saying, “You ready?” 
> 
> “Not in the least bit,” Dorian admits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my internet keeps shitting out, but hey, here's another chapter!

Dorian tells himself he isn’t nervous up until the moment Cullen’s pulling the key from the ignition, hand squeezing Dorian’s thigh, and saying, “You ready?” 

“Not in the least bit,” Dorian admits.

“Good,” Cullen says in return, patting at his leg once more before he reaches for the door handle. “Me neither.” He opens up the back and Pup hops down, tongue lolling and tail wagging – and immediately rounds the car and immediately goes for Dorian’s hands, licking and sniffing and butting his head against them until Dorian resigns himself to scratching the dog behind his ears.

“There,” Dorian says, “Satisfied?”

Pup gives a yip that gets drowned out by a voice loudly calling out, “ _Cullen Stanton Rutherford._ ”

They must look hilarious, all three of them turning to look at the source with wide eyes. 

From the large house nestled between a spindly brown copse and a field that spans as far as the eye can see, a woman with yellow-blonde curls spilling across her shoulders hurries down the porch steps to meet Cullen halfway down the path in a hug. Her eyes are wet, gaze pointed at the sky as she blinks and squeezes Cullen around the shoulders. As they pull back, her mouth quavers as her brows draw. 

Before Cullen can even get out, “Mia, I –” she’s cutting him off and moving towards Dorian.

She fixes him with a smile while she lets Pup sniff at her fingers, waiting until he’s content to lick them before she turns fully to face him. “You must be Dorian,” she says, tugging him in for a hug in lieu of shaking his outstretched hand. As they separate, she grasps Dorian by the shoulders, looking him over with a smile. “Cullen mentioned you were handsome, but.” She gestures and raises both eyebrows.

“Oh,” Dorian says, grinning widely, “Aren’t you charming? Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Mia laughs, and – Dorian sees the family resemblance all the more as her eyes crinkle at the edges. Her laugh lines are a little deeper, her hair lighter, her features just a bit more delicate. They’ve got the same lips – or they would, had Cullen’s not been textured by the scar – and ears and chin. She says, “He also warned me about your silver-tongue,” and then, clapping her hands together, “Come, we’ve got dinner in the oven. I think Jeffrey’s out back trying to convince the girls to leave the cat. It just had _kittens_.”

Cullen makes a soft noise, one that Dorian only just barely catches, and then he says, “I’ll be sure to keep an eye on Pup then. Is Branson coming?”

Dorian steps carefully up onto the porch and pokes Cullen in the side, muttering, “I heard that.”

“Branson said he’d be by in an hour or so, after Amity picks Patton up from whatever sport it is he’s playing now,” Mia answers over him, “Even little Rosalie is coming.”

“And that fellow she’s with?”

“They’re married, little brother. You were in their wedding.”

Lip curling with distaste, Cullen makes a face over his shoulder at which Dorian can just barely contain a giggle. They keep following Mia through the bottom level of her house to the kitchen. Pictures line the walls while dolls and toys of all kinds litter the main living area, making the space – that smells delicious – look _homey_. Lived-in. Nothing like the home nor the conditions in which Dorian was raised. 

Just as Mia is gesturing them towards stools to sit on at the island counter, a door slams open and shut – once before thundering feet, and then once more before it’s, very clearly, opened and gently closed by what must be Mia’s husband. 

A little girl with huge blue eyes and dusky blonde hair hurtles into view just before an identical one slams into her back, sending them both staggering into the kitchen. Their eyes light up in recognition the moment before they both screech, “Uncle Cullen!” and send themselves flying into his legs, and beside Dorian, Pup gives a low _woof_ but doesn’t budge an inch. 

From there it’s pure chaos – introductions, more doors opening and closing, Mia barking orders while Cullen gets teased and Dorian’s prodded into answering questions. Rosalie and her husband arrive only moments before Branson, Amity, and Patton, and with all of the siblings in one room together, Dorian’s _floored_ with the way genetics work. Growing up, everyone had always said he was the spitting image of Halward, but here? Seeing this? It’s two stretching generations of the same Rutherford face. Rosalie is what Mia’d probably looked like ten years ago and Branson is Cullen with less worry lines and a full beard. The three squabbling cousins are missing only one more boy – then they’ll be the spitting image of the four siblings.

“Do you have a sister, Mister Dorian?” one of the twins asks, managing to stuff half of her slice of roast into her mouth. She wears a sticky, brown beard of gravy. 

“Um,” Dorian says, feeling eyes on him from all directions. “No. I do not.”

“What about a bruhver?” the other one asks.

“No brothers either.” Feeling a bit awkward at the seas of frowning faces, he volunteers, “But I did have a pet snake.” 

At that, Branson and Amity’s son, Patton, perks up. “’s ‘at why you have the tattoo?”

Dorian tries to keep from cringing. He doesn’t know how much Cullen has told his family, but there’s no simple way to say: “Oh, no. It’s actually due to the fact that I’m from a long line of pure-bred Altus mages and this just so happens to be part of the family crest. Also, please don’t burn me at the stake in the backyard.”

“Mhmm,” Dorian vocalizes around a bite. 

Either Adelaide or Austine asks, “What was his name?” (Dorian doesn’t know how on Thedas the girls’ family can tell them apart.)

“Pavo.”

“What’s ‘at mean?” Patton asks, peeking around his father to Dorian’s right. 

Bombarded with these questions, Dorian’s a little distracted by the children to worry about their parents’ reactions to, “It means ‘peafowl’ in Tevene.”

One of the girls starts laughing loudly as she hollers, “You said pee!” and everyone else is pretty much helpless but to giggle aside from Mia who scolds her child. It’s gentle, but stern – the same exact way Cullen is with Pup.

“That’s quite enough of that,” Mia says, tone brokering no arguments as the children finally begin to settle. “Finish eating and then you can go back to the kittens and leave Mister Dorian _alone_.”

Luckily, the conversation moves towards a less potentially threatening topic: work. The children get bored, finish their food, and beg to go back outside, the girls adamant about showing Patton their new kittens. And it’s funny, because Dorian watches Cullen look wistfully after them even as he sits, wineglass in hand. 

“Cullen never wanted to help on the farm,” Mia says, teasing glint in her eye. “He’d drag his little wooden sword behind him in the mud and disappear into the back barn trying to poke holes into the haybales.”

“ _Mia_.”

Dorian laughs, helplessly, imagining a Cullen thirty years younger with the same grimly determined expression. He rests a hand on Cullen’s thigh, grateful when he reaches down and twines their fingers. “I bet that was too cute for words.”

“Oh, it was,” Mia says. “Always did have a soft spot for animals, though. Bet he’s dyin’ to go see those baby kittens.”

Cullen makes a helpless face, eyes wide and expression a little wobbly. It could just be the alcohol. “I bet they’re so tiny,” he says in a near whisper.

Dorian’s heart clenches.

“Oh, fine,” Mia says, standing and grabbing her wineglass. “Come on, come on. We don’t have to let the kids have all the fun. Jeff, love, you want to get a fire going out in the pit?”

Outside, most of the adults gather around the bonfire -- “ _If there is one thing we Orlesians excel at, it’s bonfires. Granted, usually we burn effigies, but this will do,_ ” Jeffrey had joked – but Cullen practically drags Dorian to the nearest barn, Branson and Pup following closely. Dorian can hear the children talking as they approach, a bit higher up than he’d expected.

Dorian climbs up the ladder after Cullen, secretly admiring the view, and is arrested by the sight of Cullen cradling a tiny ball of fluff to his chest. It’s dark gray in color, mewing, and kneading Cullen’s sweater, still so young its eyes aren’t quite open. When Cullen looks up to meet Dorian’s eyes, Dorian knows, immediately, that if Cullen ever asks anything while making that face, he’ll have no choice but to say yes.

“Mister Dorian, do you want to hold one?” one of the girls asks, turning to gently pick up the runt from where its resting next to its mother. “This one’s the littlest,” she says, “Like me.”

 _Adelaide, then_. “Have you named it, yet?” he asks, folding himself to sit so that he’s closer to her height. The kitten is small and soft and breathing too fast; he’s no veterinarian, but Dorian knows something is amiss. Subtly as possible, Dorian casts out a small amount of healing magic and waits for the heartbeat to soften and slow just a bit.

Her eyes – and Dorian is only just noticing that one is blue and the other is brown – are wide when Dorian looks to see why she did not answer. She reaches out to touch the kitten, the gentlest of pets just between its eyes. “Oh, good. She feels better.” Although she can’t be more than five, she sounds old. Tired.

“Ah,” Dorian hedges, “she does, doesn’t she?”

Dorian feels a little off the rest of the evening, hanging near Cullen and watching everyone interact as Jeffrey and Mia break out a wheel of cheese and more wine. He overindulges a bit when Cullen waves off more, feeling something in his chest loosen as he watches the kids chase Pup around while he yips and plays like a puppy should.

The fire is warm and Dorian’s downright cozy, leant up against Cullen who’s big and warm and so very clearly a family man. Dorian doesn’t know if he’s ever seen Cullen smile this much.

He’s still smiling after hugs and goodbyes and through everyone saying, “Nice to meet you.” He’s still smiling even as they load Pup into the backseat and pull out down the long, winding road. It only fades a little while they’re driving, replaced instead by focus. 

Dorian’s dozing, happy by proxy, when Cullen says, “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asks, “Being devilishly handsome? For that, you’ll have to thank my parents. It’s all part of my breeding.”

Cullen snorts. “I’ll keep that in mind. But, no. Thanks for being here with me, on this holiday and everything.”

First Day. A big, ancient Ferelden tradition of going around making sure winter hasn’t killed your friends and loved ones. “Of course,” Dorian says quietly. “You know, I actually got a present for you. I think I left it at your house, though.”

“Oh?” Cullen muses, “I might’ve gotten a little something for you as well.”

“’Might’ve.’ Like you aren’t the most sickeningly traditional man in all of Thedas,” Dorian teases. He reaches over the center console to squeeze Cullen’s thigh.

Later, when they get home and Cullen’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth, Dorian runs his fingers over his brand new fennec charm, wondering if the fact that their gifts for each match is a sign of more good things to come.


	13. discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A general feeling of unease is all that Dorian feels when he wakes well before the sun. His eyes are still closed, his chest is still bare, and Cullen is still warm beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a little bit of lyrium-related angst ahead

A general feeling of unease is all that Dorian feels when he wakes well before the sun. His eyes are still closed, his chest is still bare, and Cullen is still warm beside him.

_Cullen._

Cullen’s shaking, _trembling_ as though trying to shake free from his skin with sweat beading up along his temples and under his eyes; his expression is pinched, pained as his hands clutch at the blankets. It’s almost as though he’s screaming, close-mouthed and silent. His jaw keeps clenching, teeth grinding. He looks sick. A little broken. Dorian’s worry mounts. 

A handful of seconds later, Pup whines loudly and scratches at the door and Dorian knows that this – _this_ is what Cullen meant when he’d spoken briefly of nightmares. So much for not having them when Dorian’s there.

“Cullen,” Dorian says, voice even as he lays a hand over Cullen’s arm, “I need you to return from the Fade, Amatus.”

When Cullen blinks awake, his eyes are full of unspilled tears and his breathing is labored. It’s somehow worse when he comes fully into consciousness, struggling to sit upright while looking around, clearly confused as to his surroundings. He gasps for breath while Dorian looks on, unmoving, unknowing of how to help, where to be, what to do.

On a whim, or maybe out of desperation to soothe somehow, he reaches out and attempts to settle his hand on Cullen’s thigh, but Cullen flinches so violently at the touch that Dorian recoils. Cullen turns to look at him in the dark, the shine of his eyes too bright in the soft moonlight. 

“Oh,” he says. And then, “ _Oh._ ” Shaking hands cover his face.

Dorian tries again and this time Cullen sags into him, clutching at Dorian like he’s a lifeline. He says nothing, just rubs at Cullen’s back, soothing as best he can considering this is – 

This is the first time a lover has held Dorian close like this. It’s so very different from everything he’s ever known: he’s being entrusted with this vulnerability, depended upon for strength; in this moment, he’s _needed_. Not for sex, not for anything but closeness and comfort. Intimacy, he believes this is called. Maybe even trust. 

“Fuck,” Cullen breathes, turning his face into Dorian’s chest, “You’re here.” The words don’t seem as though they’re truly meant for Dorian’s ears, not with the way Cullen’s panting, breathing so hard that Dorian’s worry mounts. “You’re okay.” 

“You’re alright, Amatus,” Dorian says, threading fingers up into Cullen’s curls.

Cullen’s trembles don’t fade for quite some time and Dorian knows it’s probably a bit rude, but it’s essentially still night and he’s holding his lover together with soft words and warm affection – of course he’s going to get a bit drowsy. It’s not like Cullen seems to particularly mind either, given the fact that his eyes are closed and his breath is even. 

For the second time, Dorian wakes before Cullen.

Dorian extracts himself from the bed as silently as he’s able, shutting the door behind himself as he heads to the kitchen. Pup perks up from his post outside the bedroom door, follows him down the hall, and sits at his feet when Dorian relegates himself to the barstool at the island counter, giving a low woof and sprawling out when Dorian scritches his head with his toes. 

Dorian’s skilled at pretty much all things magical, a lot of things scientific, and most things involving literary knowledge. 

But this? 

_Cooking?_

They might be better off ordering takeout because there’s only a small handful of dishes Dorian is truly confident in himself to make with any regularity. And this? This is definitively not one of them.

Stew, though, is not an overly ambitious dish and Cullen seems to house a nice selection of various veggies sitting in both stainless steel and ceramic bowls about his kitchen countertops. Dorian spies onions in a bag near the stove and he knows there are potatoes in the pantry as well. Herbs line the windowsill, sitting in the soft spilled sunlight. 

Either way, regardless of the complexity, this is something Dorian wants to try. Because…perhaps his mother never made it herself, but deep mushroom stew is one of the few dishes that he remembers her coming to sit at the dinner table for in lieu of having it sent up to her study. Maybe, if Dorian hated himself a little more, he might be tempted to call home and face his parents just to get the recipe.

Instead he scrolls through recipes on his phone, taking familiar elements where he can and splicing them together into something that looks functional. Edible, even. 

It looks fairly simple as far as the actual simmering, sautéing, and stewing goes, but he’s a little worried about the ratio of veggies to broth and can’t quite decide if he wants to try adding any type of meat to it or not. 

Finding the butter takes no time at all – Cullen had made strawberry pancakes the night before and Dorian knows there are multiple sticks in the fridge and one sitting in a dish near the toaster.

Most of the vegetables are straightforward: he chops the mushrooms, dices the onion, minces the garlic. He’d forgotten to heat the pan, though, and it takes him a full minute to realize that the burner isn’t even on. “ _Venhedis_ , Dorian, you idiot.”

The oil and mushrooms, onions, and garlic meld together but call for herbs. Dorian snaps off a sprig of thyme because it was the most common among the recipes, opts for sage instead of rosemary, and finally some parsley to bring it all together just before pouring in the broth.

He sits at the island counter and reads some horrible romantic drivel on his phone for some time until the simmering sounds more like bubbling and he goes to stir it back into silence.

Dorian startles when Cullen clears his throat from the hall, wielding the wooden spoon like a stave.

Cullen quirks an eyebrow. “What in Thedas are you doing, love?”

There are dark circles beneath his eyes and his hair is in more disarray than Dorian’s seen it in quite some time. Dorian clears his throat, cheeks pinkening even as he straightens his shoulders. “Attempting to cook,” he informs him. 

Shuffling closer, Dorian turns and opens up to accept a clinging hug. “Smells good,” Cullen murmurs into Dorian’s shoulder. “What is it?”

“A bastardized version of deep mushroom stew. Or, it will be,” he says, giving Cullen one last squeeze, “Hopefully. Within the next couple of hours. How long does it take a stew to…stew, anyway?”

Cullen sidesteps and lifts the lid from the mushroom mixture. “Looks good,” he comments. He accepts the salt when Dorian hands it to him, and steps to the side while Dorian cracks in some black pepper before replacing the lid. 

There’s a strange stretch of silence where neither of them say anything, Pup doesn’t bark, birds just outside don’t chirp or twitter. 

Wordlessly, Cullen reaches for Dorian and, again, Dorian’s a little bit floored by the showing of vulnerability, trust, intimacy. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve it or what to do with it, really. Aside from accepting the hug, of course. That’s easy. Being of similar height and build, they fit together better than one might expect. 

“Better now?” Dorian asks.

“Yeah,” Cullen answers, maybe too quickly. Then he exhales, sags a bit before he pulls back. “It was – just a bad dream.”

Dorian eyes him, watches the way he turns back towards the stew rather than making eye contact. (It’s easier that way; Dorian knows in his bones.) “Oh?”

Clearing his throat, Cullen gives the stew another stir. “I dreamt I’d started doing lyrium again. I hurt you.”

It’s not quite a gasp, but it is a noise of surprise that escapes him, too quick for Dorian to control. “But…it’s been _years_ , Cullen.” Crossing his arms, he searches Cullen’s profile, watching the fluttering clench of his jaw, the way his eyes go dark and hard staring into middle distance as he stirs.

“And yet it was so vivid,” Cullen says after a humorless chuckle, “I could feel this…hollow, burning power coursing through me, promising me everything it used to. Promising _more_. I woke up with the taste still in my mouth. Like if I cut my veins, they’d spill blue.”

“Well, let’s try not to go and get that dramatic.”

His expression hardens again. “Dorian.” 

“What do you want me to say?” Dorian’s hands fall to his sides, clenching into fists. “‘Once an addict, always an addict. No point in having any hope.’ You and I both know that’s a massive, steaming load of bullshit. You’ve gotten this far; you’re not going to just decide, ‘You know what? I quite miss being strung out and irritable all the time,’ all out of the blue one day.” 

The frustration is clear when Cullen grits out, “It’s not just –”

He takes a deep breath, gently replacing the lid to the stew and setting down the spoon just next to the stove. A little splash of the mixture coats the counter regardless. Pup whines and Cullen bends to let him sniff and lick at Cullen’s hand before allowing Cullen to scratch his ears.

Cullen finally straightens, turns, facing Dorian, and runs a hand through his messy curls. “You’re right. It is a choice.”

“I’m not…” Dorian takes a deep breath, placing his hand on Cullen’s shoulder, “I’m not trying to make light of this. Or to make you feel bad, Amatus, I swear. I just know that you’re stronger than this – you’re better than a bad dream. That’s not a choice you’ll make.”

“I…” Cullen’s mouth snaps shut as he makes a face, this tight, almost pained thing. “You’re right, but…it’s like no matter how hard I fight it, no matter how much I want to make my friends and loved ones proud, there’s still that tiny chance everything I care about will be secondary to the fucking lyrium.”

Dorian exhales slowly, mulling that over, letting his hand fall to the wayside.

This is a struggle he will never know. Not when lyrium is as natural for him as it is for any other mage, just a melding with his magic to boost and empower. There is no desperate calling, no tugging at his soul when time has passed and the dose has worn off. He’s…

He’s approached this all wrong.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Cullen’s brows furrow. “What? With what?”

Dorian doesn’t know how to say it aside from just…saying it. “Keeping you from relapsing. Keeping you…safe and happy and whole.” He swallows, looks away, afraid he’s overstepped the tenuous line between concerned and overbearing; he swears he’s not usually this uncouth. 

“That’s…” Cullen breaks off, huffing a laugh and scratching at the back of his neck, cheeks going a bright, dusky pink. “That means a lot, Dorian. And it’s…I know this is a tough conversation to have, so. Thanks.” 

He clears his throat, blinking three times in quick succession before he finds Dorian’s eyes again.

“Just. It’s easier if the temptation isn’t there in the first place.”

“Well.” 

Dorian exhales slowly, running through other things he won’t do, now that he knows this could mount into something. 

It’s not as though he can stop using it himself – it might not call for him, but it is a necessary evil when his own magic has been depleted and there’s still work to be done. So. He won’t use lyrium on Fridays or Saturdays seeing as how he tends to spend his weekends with Cullen now, or perhaps he’ll have to change their visits if he has to use it for work on those days. Either way, he’s not going to make this more difficult for Cullen. Not if it’s already this hard for him. 

Resolute, Dorian says, “That’s easy enough.”


	14. shiny things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbstruck is a good look on Cullen.

It’s less morning and more afternoon by the time Dorian wakes alone in his bed, chasing the remnants of some dream that left him aching for Cullen’s presence. The dream hadn’t been anything special – free from temptations and other distractions – but it had been distressingly normal; he’d been gardening, a task he used to (at the very least) _attempt_ every Sunday up until he met Cullen.

At least the poor thing isn’t showing signs of neglect. 

Dorian yawns and stretches and – 

“ _Kaffas_ ,” he curses, unprepared for the sudden sting that bites at his chest. And then laughs, “Oh. Right.”

Getting the piercings done wasn’t exactly on a whim, per se, but it was something that Dorian decided to finally just go and do the previous night. He’d been out drinking with Krem and a couple of his friends – Grim and Stitches, as though those were completely acceptable names – and one of them, Stitches, had decided he’d wanted to finally get the tattoo he’d been too hesitant to get, so of course Dorian followed suit. 

While it was, for the most part, out of solidarity, Dorian had been thinking about getting his nipples pierced for ages. When he’d been younger, it was one of those, “Hey, you know what would piss Halward Pavus off?” thoughts, but as he’s grown older, wizened, it’s become something more aligned with his overall aesthetic. He has beautiful tattoos; why not add some piercings to the mix?

Dorian heads to the bathroom, curious as to what he looks like in the light of day, especially now that the redness has more than likely faded.

“Truly,” Dorian tells his smirking reflection, “You are a sight to behold.”

He suddenly can’t wait to show Cullen.

As if on cue, Dorian hears a key in the front door’s lock and, hurriedly, he scrambles for a shirt. It’s plain and white and thin, making his piercings look like an open secret the moment he pulls it over his head. Cullen will notice if he looks closely enough.

“Dorian?” Cullen calls from the entry.

Dorian grabs his toothbrush and yells back, “Bathroom,” as he affixes the toothpaste and wets it, shoving it into his mouth just a few beats before Pup finds him, barking and licking at Dorian’s lax fingers. 

Though he’s not really listening for it, Dorian hears the rustle of papers and bags being set down. Cullen appears a few moments later, looking tired and soft and very glad to see Dorian.

“Hey,” he says softly, meeting Dorian’s eyes in the mirror. He sidles up behind Dorian, hands going to Dorian’s hips as he noses into his hair, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of his neck. “Missed you this week.”

It shouldn’t surprise him that Dorian thinks in response, “I miss you every minute of every day,” because Dorian _knows_ he’s a disgusting romantic at heart, but it does and he’s tremendously grateful that his mouth is full of toothpaste froth. What if he’d _said_ that? 

He scrubs at his teeth more vigorously. 

“I’m going to go get a start on brunch,” Cullen says, giving Dorian’s hip on last squeeze. “Oh, and I brought your mail in, too.”

Dorian has a thought about how well-trained Cullen is, smirks at him just to revel in the way Cullen rolls his eyes before he heads back into the kitchen like he knew Dorian’s line of thought all along. As soon as he’s rinsed his mouth and washed his face, Dorian follows.

Bacon is frying in a pan under Cullen’s watchful eye while waiting for the poaching water to boil.

“Eggs benedict?” Dorian asks. He presses a belatedly reciprocated kiss to Cullen’s cheek and meanders on towards his refrigerator, wondering if Cullen felt the press of the piercing against his arm. “I’ve got just the thing to go with them.” He retrieves the orange juice carton and the small container of strawberries. “You know, I’ve never poached eggs before.”

Cullen wears his smirk like a badge of smugness as he says, “I could teach you, if you’d like.”

“No, no,” Dorian says, fishing out a bottle of champagne from the bottom shelf of the fridge and setting it onto the counter. He closes the door with his hip. “You know better than anyone that I prefer to watch.” 

Dorian rights himself to the tune of Cullen’s laughter. 

“ _Dirty_. Come here,” Cullen requests, arms open and smiling. 

When Dorian acquiesces, he brings their mouths together in as gently and carefully as their first kiss never was. It’s a little, “Hello,” that’s almost shy, much less confident than three whole months together would imply, and enough to make Dorian press into Cullen, asking for more with his parted lips and grasping hands. He’s eager – not just craving the touch, but reassurance, knowledge that Cullen still wants him after a long week and a hard conversation. And it’s good – good enough that Dorian can feel the twitch of Cullen’s cock the same time he sighs and begins to pull back.

Once they’ve parted, Cullen whispers, “Maker,” and smiles, nudging his forehead against Dorian’s, still cupping his cheeks between strong, callused hands. “The things you do to me…”

Dorian’s dizzy with it.

Cullen presses a last, lingering kiss to Dorian’s lips. “You’re going to make me burn the bacon.”

“I’m not the who said, _‘Come here,’_ ” Dorian upholds. He turns, a skip in his step, as he gathers glasses for their mimosas.

“Guess you’re right.”

While Cullen finishes up cooking, Dorian finishes off a mimosa and starts in on a second one, enjoying the fizzy buzz the bubbles give him as he ogles Cullen. The finished product is beautiful, worthy of one of those food blogs Felix used to send links of. It’s a bittersweet thought, one that makes Dorian wish he could’ve met Cullen sooner so that he could’ve gotten the two of them acquainted.

Cullen puts the plate in front of Dorian and says something in a really terrible Orlesian accent, quickly and probably unintentionally redirecting Dorian’s sudden onset melancholy. He’s a blessing, really.

And spoiling the oblivion out of him.

There must be a way Dorian can reciprocate.

_Ah, yes,_ Dorian thinks, _right_. “So, Cullen,” Dorian says aloud, “I have something of a… _surprise_ for you. Well, not _for_ you – it was for me, really – but you will be surprised. Pleasantly.” 

Cullen’s got a mouthful of eggs but he lifts his eyebrows and tucks his chin as if to say, “Well?”

Without pause, Dorian lifts his shift over his head. He runs a hand through his hair, already resigned to tragic bedhead, and glances at Cullen’s expression. His eyes are wide, mouth agape, frozen as though he’s still waiting for the forkful that’s suspended between plate and tongue. 

Dorian smirks.

Dumbstruck is a good look on Cullen.

Cullen’s fork clatters onto his plate and he jumps, muttering, “Maker’s breath, _Dorian_.” His cheeks flush as he goes to wipe a bit of splattered egg off of his shirt, staunchly avoiding Dorian’s eyes. “You were,” he begins, clearing his throat as he rights his napkin, finally meeting Dorian’s gaze with a shy smile. “You were absolutely right about me being surprised.”

“Thoughts?” Dorian asks, “Opinions? Comments, questions, concerns, et cetera?”

“ _Good,_ ” Cullen blurts. Looking down at his plate again. The pink has spread to his ears and down past his shirt collar. “They’re – very…nice.”

Dorian sips at his mimosa.

“Fantastic. Now,” he says, “why don’t we finish up our lovely brunch and then you can fuck me. Right here in the kitchen, even.”


	15. alarm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian checks his phone, notes that Cullen already texted that he’s on his way, and smiles, rolling belly-down back into his sheets.

For the second week in a row, Dorian wakes alone in his bed on a Sunday morning, feeling the physical ache of Cullen missing from his side. Another late night hard at work on the Inquisition Forces’ grounds, barking orders at recruits or perhaps buried under an unending mountain of paperwork supplied by Josephine, while Dorian…actually worked the night away as well. 

It’s neither of their faults that Saturday night dates are nigh impossible, really, but it’s still unfortunate.

Dorian checks his phone, notes that Cullen already texted that he’s on his way, and smiles, rolling belly-down back into his sheets.

He wakes a second time to Cullen’s hand smoothing lank, sleep-sweaty hair from his forehead to replace it with a soft kiss. As he goes to move away, perhaps to the kitchen or living space to sit and catch up on emails until Dorian surfaces, Dorian grabs his sleeve and tugs, delighting in Cullen’s surprise.

“Oh,” he says softly, “Sorry to wake you.”

“Hmm, yes,” Dorian muses, “You should be sorry. You know how you can make it up to me?”

“Mm,” Cullen hums against Dorian’s mouth, going with it as Dorian starts to tug him down on top of him, “This?”

“This is a good start,” Dorian agrees. He’s smiling against Cullen’s mouth, gasping when Cullen’s kisses trail down his neck. “I am willing to negotiate, of course.”

Cullen’s distracting with his mouth, and it only worsens when he nips his way past Dorian’s collarbones to bite at Dorian’s chest, so close to where they both want it. He’s still yet to touch the piercings, too worried that he’ll cause Dorian unwanted pain, and Dorian’s okay with that for only as long as they’re still healing. They still ache and throb and tighten at any and all pressure. After that, though, it’ll be a welcome free for all.

In the meanwhile, Dorian’s perfectly content with the attention Cullen lavishes on his pectorals, his abdomen, the cut of his hips. 

Every kiss lingers, and the whole thing is so luxurious and decadent that Dorian’s skin is buzzing by the time Cullen decides enough is enough and pulls away to tug the comforter down to bare him. Dorian’s hard, aching, and he notices his hands suspended in the air, reaching for Cullen as though his subconscious can’t bear the thought of separation, no matter how brief. He draws it back, or attempts to; Cullen’s lips curve in a lopsided smile, fond, and he grasps them, brings them up to his lips. 

“Whatever you want, love,” Cullen says. “No need to hold back.” 

Dorian allows his hand to fall into Cullen’s curls. They’re longer now, damn near shaggy, and as Dorian scrapes with his nails, Cullen moves into the motion like an oversized dog begging for pets. He gives a tug and smiles when Cullen gives a delicate gasp.

And then it’s Dorian’s turn to gasp, rutting abortively into Cullen’s mouth as he sucks and laves and kisses his way up and down Dorian’s shaft, down further to his sac, and further still until he’s writhing, sweating, scratching across Cullen’s shoulders because he has to do _something_. It builds and builds and then Dorian’s crying out as the pressure releases, the ache in his groin culminating then settling into a low, delicious simmer. 

The relief is sweet.

Cullen doesn’t waste time in licking the sated moans from Dorian’s mouth. He’s hard against Dorian’s thigh.

Lax as he could ever be, Dorian smiles rather than actively returning the kisses – because like this, he’s always just a beat too late, too slow to keep up with Cullen’s fervor – and when he’s able to, he asks, “What is it that you want, Amatus?” His fingers still clutch, albeit loosely now, at Cullen’s curls. “At this point, I think you’ve earned a nice, thorough fucking.”

Pausing only to groan, Cullen bites down _hard_ on Dorian’s collarbone.

“When you talk like that…”

Dorian laughs, delighted and drunk on sex. “Like what?” he asks innocently, “I prefer to be straightforward about sex, dear. You know this.”

Chuckling, Cullen soothes the stinging skin with a kiss and looks up to meet Dorian’s eyes, all honey-brown and full of warmth, amusement, fondness. He resituates them on their sides, nose to aquiline nose, and it rouses Dorian enough to be able to lean forward for the kisses that he wants. They’re slow, luxurious kisses, heated enough to keep Dorian shifting his restless touch from Cullen’s back to hair to ass over and over again. 

Cullen’s hand grips Dorian’s thigh and lifts it until his leg is hitched around Cullen’s hip. “Is this okay?”

“Mm,” Dorian hums, “Especially if you do all the work.” 

Again, Cullen huffs a laugh. “Why am I not surprised?”

Dorian hushes Cullen by reaching between them to free Cullen’s cock, guiding it to the cleft of his ass. It’s not perfect, not by any means, but they’re just sweaty enough for the slide to almost work without a hitch. He supposes they could pause for lube – but that would involve stopping and he’s loathe to disturb the pace, the peace they have in using each other’s bodies. 

Cullen finishes with a wordless, pleading noise, burying his face in the crook of Dorian’s neck.

It takes him a little while to come down, but Dorian doesn’t mind; he pets at Cullen’s hair and back, heedless of the mess between his thighs for the time being.

“Haven’t gotten off like that since I was stationed at the Circle,” Cullen says, voice laced with chagrin.

“Really?” Dorian muses, “I find I quite like that I bring that boyish wild-side back to the surface.”

Eventually, Dorian persuades Cullen to extract himself and bring a washcloth back to the bed. He finds Cullen in the kitchen pulling out flour and cocoa, sugar and butter. There are eggs already on the counter while a pan heats on the stove.

Pup rouses from his new bed in the corner and tromps over to lick at Dorian’s hands in request of ear scritches.

“Oh,” Cullen voices, “I brought your mail again. For whatever good that means, considering you still haven’t opened last week’s…” 

It’s absent musing, a quiet judgement that makes Dorian fondly roll his eyes. He goes to the counter, Pup at his heels, and sets about sorting through the letters – bills, subscription renewals, a postcard from Mae who’s still off cavorting with her new lover in Antiva.

He’s distracted by the scent of pancakes, by Cullen bringing him a full plate with a kiss to his cheek. 

“You spoil me rotten,” Dorian says, cutting into one of the dark pancakes. Chocolate spills out, making the whole plate look rich and decadent. “Double chocolate?”

“The bars were on sale for Wintersend next week, I believe.”

Dorian hums, taste buds singing. “Right,” he says, “Maker, this’ll be our, what, third annum together?”

“Ha! You’re right. It certainly makes it feel like we’ve been together much longer than we have.” He’s spooning more batter into the pan when he absently says, “We’ll be old and married before you know it.”

To hide his grin, Dorian returns to his mail. 

Out of habit, he opens everything, even if it’s just to skim briefly over the words before tossing it in the recycling. But the habit gets the best of him when he catches, “My son,” and, “I beg you,” and, “Signed, Your Loving Father.”

The breakfast turns to ash in his mouth.

Unbidden, a bark of laughter erupts free and Dorian finds he can’t quite vocalize an answer to Cullen’s sudden look of alarm. He can’t answer for fear of coming across too harshly, too acrid – as is the response Halward Pavus always elicits – so instead he pushes the letter to the edge of the table. Cullen switches off the burner, takes the letter, reads it carefully while Dorian stares at nothing and thinks very seriously about drinking the entire contents of his liquor cabinet.

“I’m…sensing some bad blood between you and your father?”

Dorian barks another laugh. “Interesting turn of phrase.” He swallows thickness out of his voice, afraid that if he says anything more, it’ll all come spilling out. Instead, he says, “He can send as many letters as he’d like -- it’ll save me the trip to buy kindling.”

Cullen frowns, but still comes around and kisses the crest of Dorian’s cheek. “I – want to ask,” he says, “But…you’ll tell me, in time. Won’t you?”

“Yes. And I’ll…try not to be so prickly for the rest of the day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm just here to lure you in with porn and then throw some H/C at you

**Author's Note:**

> OH YEAH! you can find me on [tumblr](http://onceuponamoonfic.tumblr.com) :)))))))


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